


Here&Gone | Rust&Stardust

by virtueofvice



Category: Powers (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Older Man/Younger Woman, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 35,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5569789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtueofvice/pseuds/virtueofvice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What a powerful thing it is to be loved by someone who hates everyone... An exploration of the engaging dynamic between Johnny Royalle and Calista.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Annabelle

**Author's Note:**

> Companion playlist: http://8tracks.com/virtueofvice/here-gone-rust-stardust
> 
> Videos: 
> 
> http://acquaintedwithvice.tumblr.com/post/121710978584/fanvid-blurry-johnny-royallecalista-secor-edit
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PGPDxZE7_4g
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pd6zxixWqV4

_But there would have been no Lolita at all if there had not first been Annabelle._

Johnny Royalle had never really cared much for anything at all, not since walking barefoot across Bear Island, flickering in and out of existence like a confused hormonal ping pong ball freezing to death on the alien, white Norwegian tundra. He had found food, and shelter, and a life, eventually, after many false starts and an agony of despair. But by the time he had found his way back to the beginning, Annabelle was no more than a name graven in stone over trembling spring flowers.

She hadn't waited for him.

He blamed himself, at first for the failure. But the guilt over her death waned in time, as all pain does, and that was unacceptable. He had to bring it back, make it sharper; and so he blamed himself for letting her get too close, for loving her - for making promises he couldn't keep. Annabelle was no princess in a tower, and he was no white knight. He was just a boy, hiding in a closet that opened into another dimension.

When they were kids, he used to read to her - the Chronicles of Narnia; the kindly, educated voice of C.S. Lewis drowning out the drunken rantings of their father. He'd imagined the exhilaration, the freedom, the weight that would be lifted from his shoulders, if only he could take his sister's hand and step through a door to another world. But when the door opened, it was in the back of his mind, and he could not take her with him.


	2. Needs

The room had been built specifically for him, to the exclusion of all others. What other human would feel comfortable in a box, sealed in concrete, without even the possibility of escape? It was a vault in every sense of the word, a mystery that the mundane mind couldn't conceive of. No doors, no windows, not even an air vent that could be seen with the naked eye. Yet he felt safe there, safer than anywhere else on the recklessly spinning carnival ride of a planet. He had used the room heretofore as a means of intimidation, a deadly promise to those he wished to manipulate - _you are trapped here, and I am the only one who can get you out._

Not so with the girl. She… She was different. A ray of naive sunshine shattering the cynicism that had kept him going for so long. And she lied, oh how she lied, and was ungrateful for the gleam in his eyes that told her he would do anything to keep her safe. She had doubted him at first, but time had taught her how precious she was to him, and she barely hesitated to take advantage of the fact, disobeying him at every turn.

But he had brought her here. Without shackles, without chains, carving out his vulnerable heart and placing it in her hands, though she with her child's eyes didn't recognize it for what it was. Little girl lost, older than she looked, younger than she should be, too impossibly, intrinsically linked with her dreams to ever understand him. Making her trust him was easy. Her large clear eyes begged to trust. Teaching her compliance… a work in progress.

She stood before him in the hidden room, not for the first time, possibly for the last. Admonishing him, urging him to clean up the mess he'd made. To stay, for once.

_Johnny, don't leave me!_

_Will you wait?_

"I need something else from you."

He tensed, skin tightening with the urge to transport out before the words crossed her lips. "I can't help you find your powers." Knowing what she would be asking for, in the asking of it. Wanting it. An image of her with Olympia, with Diamond, flitted across his overactive imagination in a theater of depravity. He burned.

"Not that." She turned to face him, and her face was as cold and placid as dawn over the glacial lakes he had seen as a boy. "I want you to help me kill my father."

His heart thudded in his chest as he stared at her, fingertips tingling with the desire to grasp, to devour, and somehow determine how so much wanton cruelty and such innocence could exist simultaneously in the same frail frame.

"Now that, I can help you with."


	3. Revelations

The light slanting through the clouded window lent her skin a pale, tawny hue. For a moment, bent over one coltish limb, her leonine curls framing her face, she could have been anyone - a creature of woodlands and meadows, smelling of lilies and yellow crocus. She hummed to herself, a simple nonsense tune he did not recognize. For a heartbeat or two, he forgot to say - "I'll come back later."

She barely glanced at him, safety razor gliding up the smooth line of her shin. "It's okay. I know you don't think about girls that way." His gaze flickered, up to meet her glance, then down, then up again in the blink of an eye. When his brow barely twitched in response, she continued. "I mean, you and Simons are a thing, right?"

 _Really?_ Johnny smothered a grimace and a laugh beneath inscrutable bemusement. Clearly the slender replicator had been telling tales. "Simons' sexuality defies categorization." He replied with a shrug. He took one long stride into the room, retrieving a towel and holding it out to her as he turned his gaze away, studying the assortment of Retro Girl posters on the wall lest his attention stray elsewhere.

She did not accept the offering. "I'm not that modest."

He sighed, refolded the towel haphazardly, unsure what to do with his hands or eyes, on uneven footing for the first time in recent memory. "Modesty is an unappreciated virtue these days."

She chuckled, the picture of youthful incredulity. The sun glinted on her, almost like an idol herself in ruby and gold. "Okay…"

Johnny kept his eyes trained elsewhere, but she moved about in his peripheral, tugging on the clothes that she'd arrived with, somewhat modified for comfort in the humid afternoon. His voice was a rough caress, raspy with smoke and jaded understanding. "Unexpected beauty is a nearly sacred thing. A revelation changes you by the act of noticing it." He turned his eyes back to her again, gaze caught in its own type of gravity. "Hold something of yourself in reserve… the promise of revelation."

Staring at the posters, as if they meant nothing. Asking the questions that had been gnawing at him since the night before. Did she see, now? Did she see her idol as she truly was? Could she acknowledge the duplicity inherent in Retro Girl's sleek red-clad image?

_Of course not._

And oh, but she was stubborn. Her large eyes watched him, bright with hurt as he gently pulled the wool from them. She clung to her adolescent allegiances with fingertips that were bloodied by desperation, refusing to accept that the purest of intentions may be those not couched in robes of light. Her innocence would crush her, if he allowed it - yet he could never imagine her as he had become. Better to let her go, and stare blinking into the sun, hoping her wings would not melt.


	4. Deja Vu

She didn't look all that surprised to see him, despite his abrupt appearance. The expression on her face - eyes large and round, lips parted slightly in an unsteady smile - said that she'd been expecting him. The rapid club beat, a digital racket, pulsed around them yet he barely had to strain to be heard. Johnny Royalle had a voice that caught the ear.

"Trying to make me jealous?" He greeted with artificial warmth, clearly indicating Retro Girl without indicating her at all. She had brought the woman, that paragon of prepackaged heroics, into their home… But he could see in the brightness of her eyes that she did not anticipate the depth of his displeasure.

Her apologies were stammered and hasty, affectionate half-truths sprinkled in with outright lies. The hollow in his chest echoed with an answering stab of discomfort at each falsity, but he accepted that it was in her nature. Calista was a survivor, a bright light in the most unexpected of places… And an almost pathological liar. She begged his forgiveness - begged more than that, in fact, and he could not help but grant it.

"I'll never be mad at you." Johnny heard himself promise her, his voice rasping and hoarse to his own ears, as if from a great distance. The truly awful thing was, he was certain he meant it.

He excused himself to meet with Retro Girl, as his greatest weakness wandered off amongst the dancing bodies and flashing lights. Annabelle, he'd called her, as if the kindnesses and manipulations of the present somehow overlaid, neutralized, became one with the failings of the past.


	5. Daddy

Calista looked more frightened than he had ever seen her, the green glow of the Drainer ineffective on her dormant (or nonexistent) powers. Her hands gripped the bars as she stared around the headquarters, till her large, clear eyes rested on him. Then her expression relaxed, into a relief that was so palpable he felt it himself. She knew he would come. He always came for her. The knowledge that she had placed her trust in him was dangerously satisfying.

Walker's partner had her predictable tantrum, which he duly diverted and ignored; waiting patiently with arms crossed in a double-breasted suit until the cell door was open and Calista released. He took her hand in his, resisting the urge to check her for injuries or signs of mistreatment. All seemed well, and she ducked her head in gratitude.

"Thank you, Daddy." One of the officers cracked from the rear of the room in a piping falsetto. Johnny glanced toward the voice, contemplating retaliation, then thought better of it.

"You'll hear from my legal team regarding the mistreatment and unlawful detention of a ward under my care." He informed the detectives drily. If they expected the dark Daddy Wilcox, he would play the part. A concerned father-figure, indeed. Yet they would live.

Better to spare Calista from that kind of carnage for as long as he could. If his predictions were correct, ugly sights would soon be plentiful enough. The glance he gave Walker, tossed casually over one shoulder as he led Calista and his elegantly-dressed lawyer out of the station, was patently smug.


	6. Choices

Royalle had his enemies, over the years, but as he stood between the girl and her beau, he could call none to mind that he had despised more. The boy, of course, did not even view him as an opponent in the truest sense of the word, but as a dark dominating force over the situation that he as the aggressive party had previously been dominating. The big bad wolf, come to stake his claim on Red Riding Hood. The lad's face was white as a sheet, sweat beading on his finely crafted brow.

The analogy suited Royalle fine. The role of the villain was a comfortable one, and he shouldered it willingly. Heroism had always been an uneasy weight to be yoked with, a mixed bag of expectations, megalomania and hypocrisy. No one expects anything from a villain, which makes it easier to move outside the constraints of external scrutiny. No one wants to befriend a villain. No one expects a villain to love, though they almost always do. His motivations were his own, and right at that moment he was motivated by the frustrated desire to wrap his hands around the boy's brazen throat and pop his head right off.

It would distress Calista, of course. She had a fondness for the lad that he could not begrudge her, youth calling to youth with the freshness and foolish hopes of springtime. He pretended it did not trouble him, that he was not consumed with jealousy and protectiveness. He dismissed the boy with a veneer of politeness, scathing adolescence making him wish he had been vicious. Children, forever ingrates.

And then Calista slipped her small, warm hand into his, and he turned to meet her tearful gaze, and all was right with the world. She had chosen him, again.


	7. Sway

The red in her eyes was like rubies, like garnet, like blood spilled on the ground from a thousand small failures or just this single catastrophe. _Simons_ , her parched lips whispered and in his mind the slender henchmen was dead already, at her utterance. The man who was never alone had not been able to endure his own loneliness, could not abide the division of Johnny's attention between himself and the girl. Could not tolerate the way his master's eyes grew dark, soft and thoughtful whenever they rested on her.

Guilt wracked him, weighing his limbs with heaviness though he did not often feel subject to the constraints of the physical. Sway, this monster that he'd created, draining the life force from this delicate, precious thing. She shivered and sweated on the pallet, pale hair sticking to her skull. He gently bathed her forehead with a cloth, quivering with the desire to be in a dozen places at once - in the Powers department HQ, neatly severing all of Simons' limbs, individually. In the prison facility, dragging the truth out of Wolfe even if he had to do it a molecule at a time. Here, kneeling on the cold floor, tending to a girl who for long moments, thick with fear and hallucination, could not even see him.

If she ever really saw him, at all.

Walker arrived to save the day, as was his wont, pushing Johnny out of the way as if he had been a Nosferatu hovering over the milk-white maiden. He seemed to think there was a chance that Johnny would leave her, wash his hands of the mistake that left Calista weak and delirious on the floor.

It was all he could do not to laugh. _Leave her?_ Easier to leave his heart behind, staining the concrete and linens beside her crimson eyes. Naive, ungrateful, deceitful, perfect, beautiful girl.

_I loved her more than anything I had seen or imagined on earth, or hoped for anywhere else._

"I wouldn't dream of it."


	8. Playing Hero

Things had gained momentum far too quickly. Like a great snowball, gritty with filth and secrets, the project that had held all his hopes disintegrated into a dirty bomb, a chain reaction meltdown that threatened everything he still cared about. More than threatened, placed the future of the world squarely in checkmate. Seemingly inescapable.

And Walker. Fucking _Diamond_. Betrayed him as he'd always suspected he would; so obsessed with playing the hero that he'd never once stopped to consider the meaning of the word. Royalle knelt in the cell, under the sickly, leaden green light of the Drainer, and loathed him. When one's limbs are bound and chained, loathing the person who put them there becomes a full-time activity.

He heard sirens and shouting from other parts of the facility, but helpless and hidden away as he was, he really couldn't be arsed to care about it. That is, until the cell door slid open.

 _Help_ , they wanted. Help, when he had offered his help and been rewarded with tricks and treachery. White-hats so hellbent on triumph and glory that they caught a vexatious stray dog and let the savage man-eating wolf go free. Taking each step by the book till they walked, nose in its pages, into their own graves. To hell with them and their hypocrisy. Johnny refused. "Let him eat the whole fucking world. There's not one fucking person on this rock I give a fucking shit about."

_Isn't there?_

"Really? What about Calista?" Diamond, true to his name, drove the sharpest edge in where he knew it would cut the deepest. "He will go after Calista, Johnny."

Johnny felt the muscles in his face relax in defeat, even as his insides twisted into writhing knots. He knew the truth when he heard it, of course. And in the wake of such catastrophic failings, nothing mattered now but her. "I know where he'll go… Get me out of this fucking thing. **Now.** "


	9. Bleed

They entered the room, and while he'd known - or at least suspected - that Wolfe would be inside, he could not focus on him when they blinked into existence directly in front of the killer. He had eyes only for Calista.

_Are you hurt? Are you… **changed?**_

_Come with me. Leave with me. Let me save you._

Pointless words, garbling in another language, spilled from his lips and Walker's. No one was leaving this room on their terms. That much should have been obvious.

"I don't think she wants to leave. Do you?" Wolfe's tone was entirely devoid of smugness, but Johnny still yearned to teleport into his chest and destroy him from the inside out. Leave a gaping hollow where his heart had been, dripping red. The image was tempting on a visceral level, an answering echo to the way Johnny himself felt, seeing the worn paperback clutched in Calista's white fingers, the gleam of fanaticism kindling in her eyes. He knew it well, and hated the sight of it. His focus narrowed to the eradication of that gleam.

Wolfe had been his teacher, his mentor, for many years. He had failed to kill the older Power, time and time again, because of his faith and affection for what had once been. He looked at the murderer covered in gore and still saw the charismatic philosopher of his youth.

And then Wolfe had taken Calista from him, barely crooking a finger to do so. So Royalle ripped his head off, and displayed it for the pleasure of the masses.


	10. Solitaire

She'd shielded him. He wouldn't find that out until later, long after she was gone, when it no longer mattered. He would learn it, and stand silent, with the barest of smiles curving his melancholy lips. He would cherish the knowledge, holding it close to him through the long watches of the night as he watched the live children in his club and tried not to remember the dead ones they had replaced.

She'd stood before the ravening Wolfe, fearless, and looked him in the eye as Johnny lay insensate behind her. It was the proudest moment of his life, and he hadn't even been there for it.

The knowledge would mean something to him. But he did not have it now, despondent at the bar, sorting his cards and drinking. He could not even be bothered to slick his hair back, but let it hang parted, sharp suit exchanged for a rumpled jacket. Christian came by, presumably just to push his buttons as he always had. He asked about Calista, of course; Christian was never one to pass up an opportunity to make himself feel better at someone else's expense.

Johnny could not even bring himself to say her name.

_What I wanted is in shambles._

"You've really gone and fucked yourself this time, Johnny." Walker informed him. "Does she know you love her?"

"Get out." Johnny rasped, and took another swallow of bourbon. He ran a caressing fingertip down the Queen of Clubs card, before tearing it in half.


	11. Break

_There is nothing more atrociously cruel than an adored child._

From her manner - shifty, hesitant, eager to leave yet lingering out of some misplaced sense of debts owed - he suspected she was hoping to find him not at home. She had packed in silence, making her plans without including him in their outcomes. There was nothing left to say, really. She had changed. They both felt it - Royalle more than herself, if possible. She didn't need anyone's protection anymore.

_You've nothing to fear from me. Nor from anyone, I should think._

He popped into existence directly beside her, bomber jacket by coincidence similar to her own. They had adopted patterns, in the past several weeks; an uneasy similarity borne of close proximity and an inability to trust. The smile she gave him was genuine, at least, lighting up her face with only the barest trace of the awkwardness that had filled her gait with trepidation only moments before.

Royalle was not himself; unpolished, unprepared, button-down shirt open at the collar, the stammer of the lean lonely boy he had once been hiding like the shadow of a childhood bully behind his words.

"I was running an errand. In Hong Kong." He informed her. Still smoking, the cigarette a handy excuse to avoid her eyes, to keep his distance, occupying his hands so he would not pull her into his arms. His explanation sounded halfassed even to himself, but he knew there was no point in saying more. Still, he did, knowing the answer even before he'd uttered the question. "We could go, if you like." Anywhere, everywhere; if it would keep her by his side just a little longer.

She giggled, a hollow, insincere sound. He had thought they were past insincerity. "Johnny, I…"

He could not bear to let her finish. _Don't say it._ "Yeah, I know." He shrugged, looking at the ground, scuffing at the pavement with the toe of his boot. "…But I'll be here." The words leapt from his lips, he could not stop them. He watched them flutter down to land at her feet beside his bleeding heart and the shattered shards of all his hopes. She smiled, sunny and genuine. It was almost enough. She drew near, and he held his breath. _Don't touch me. I'll die if you touch me._

"I know." She murmured sweetly, and kissed his cheek.

He watched her silhouette for a moment, pacing off confidently into the setting sun. When the thread between himself and his soul stretched as taut as he thought he could allow, he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and transported himself to the opposite end of the globe, pretending he left the sharp insistent ache behind. 


	12. Lazarus

The roof of the warehouse where Johnny Royalle's perennial club made its home was not as high as some. It was not an impressive building - large, and welcoming to the droves of Powers kids who found commonality there, but it was no skyscraper silhouetted against the night. From the roof, the stars were a suggestion, blotted out by smog and the refracted glow of larger, more glamorous buildings.

  
The man himself had been out there a long time, breathing in tepid city air and carcinogens. He brooded into the darkness, sirens several blocks over punctuating his dark thoughts with a piercing wail. With a grimace, he tossed his cigarette over the edge of the roof and turned to take himself back inside. As if waiting for just such a moment, a gust of wind brushed his back, and light footsteps landed on the concrete behind him.

  
"Calista?"

  
He asks how she found him, but it is just to fill the empty space between goodbyes. His ears are popping with the abrupt change in altitude, from somewhere in the unending silence of despair to this sunny apparition. He is not entirely convinced she is real. After all that they have been through - all he put her through, despite his best intentions - he is bracing himself for the inevitable descent when she leaves again.

  
He asked how she found him, even though he knew that finding people is what Retro Girl did. She had become a hero, stepped into the footsteps she longed to follow; a protege without a master, an idol by necessity. The mantle looked uncomfortable on her shoulders, an uncertain light in her eyes, when he could stand to meet them. The suit, on the other hand, fit like a glove. He looked away, studying his hands, the flashing silver of his lighter, bringing one more cigarette to his lips - anything but look at her.

  
She did not answer his question - Calista had always known him too well. Even before she knew his name, she could translate the silences between his words, everything he said in what he did not say. Instead, she took the cigarette from him, a long drag filling her lungs. He imagined them, delicate pink tissue, fluttering behind her ribcage, tainted - like the rest of her - a little darker for their association with him. He found the idea troubled him less than it should have, accepting the cigarette in long fingers when she offered it back, careful to avoid brushing her skin with his own. The smoke did nothing to calm his nerves, his heart hammered in his chest, but he concentrated on it to keep his hands from shaking.

  
"These things will kill you." He informed her hoarsely, because there was nothing else to say and he wanted to pretend he was not drowning.

  
She looked at him, amusement curving full lips into cupid's bow, pale eyes gleaming. "They'll kill you first."

  
He looked down, kicked the pavement like a schoolboy, an old habit that he cannot seem to break in her presence. Silence stretched, a dichotomy of hesitance and discomfort braced against old familiarity.

  
Royalle was, in fact, extraordinarily healthy. A rudimentary understanding of human physiology ensured that the more threatening physical manifestations of any illness were immediately transported out of his body. It required barely a thought now, a decades-old habit that had become reflexive and automatic.

  
Heartache, however, cannot be removed.

  
She was calling to him, saying his name in a voice so gentle that he turned to her like a night bloom finding the sun. "Johnny." He turned toward her, unable as ever to resist that magnetism, but could not meet her eyes. His heart quivered on the edge of unending night, not daring to hope for the dawn - indeed, he had been living in a country where dawn is a distant myth, a barren wasteland called Despair.

  
"Please look at me."

  
There were tears in her eyes. She wept, and he reached for her, then hesitated. His soul hung all about her, aching with uncertainty, and then she threw herself into his arms.  
  
His heart stopped, breath crystallizing in his lungs, in an agony of relief. At least he held beauty, if only for a moment - a blessing villains do not often receive.

  
"You were right." She spoke into his lapel. Her tears, slipping silently from her as if she had forgotten how to cry, stained his jacket and he thought he would never have it cleaned again. "None of them know me. None of them."

  
His hand trembled as he laid it on her hair, hardly daring to hope. He held her as she cried, and realized she was trembling, as well. The weight of the world was heavy on young shoulders. They tried to make her into something she was not, something less humane and more… profitable.

  
"Where do you want to go?" He murmured, hoping against hope that this time... this time she would accept his offer.

  
There was a long silence. He felt himself falling as hope died, the ground slipping away beneath him, before she answered in a tiny voice - "Hong Kong?"

  
And they were gone, almost instantaneously, as if his power had been waiting for this moment and did not require command from his conscious mind to act. He took a shuddering breath, his arms tightening around her, and then they were standing on a well-lit corner near a street-food vendor, steam rising from his cart in the cool pre-dawn air. 7 pm there, 4 am here; a juxtaposition of grey twilights east and west.

  
"Are you alright?" Johnny asked, releasing Calista so he could look into her eyes. The expression on her face almost staggers him. Relief, trust, genuine gratitude. Everything he'd longed to see when she was too young to show it, brought into the light. The world was askew, he could not find his footing, the sensation of joy overwhelming and anxious after such unending darkness.

  
"Are you ready to go home now, Calista?" He rasped quietly. _Will you stay?_

  
"Where is home?"

  
"Anywhere you like."

  
She looked at him, smiled, and put her hand in his. "Yes."


	13. Smoke & Sweetness

Summer in Mumbai was always hot, and humid as a sauna. This particular summer was no different, except perhaps for being hotter. Record-breaking heat raised mercury into the triple digits, the sun beating down mercilessly on the city. They lingered in a _haveli_ on the outskirts, though Calista spent most of her daylit hours in the slums, handing out candy to orphans. Her absence always brought with it a creeping tendril of trepidation, the whispering certainty that one day she would leave and never return. But every evening she did return, bronzed and smiling, hair kissed by the sun.

  
While Johnny had offered repeatedly to take them somewhere a bit more accommodating, Calista demurred. He hated the heat, whiling away his afternoons in the shadows with sleeves rolled up and collar loose, drinking iced chai and _feni_ , smoking the long, brown cigarettes the locals rolled. It would have been the work of a moment to retrieve his preferred brand from the states, but when in Rome… He didn't resent her absence, but the little jolt his heart gave whenever she alighted on the balcony was unsettling. He lit another _beedi_ and stepped out into the balmy evening to greet her.

  
"Retro Girl flies again," He quipped dryly, as her sandaled feet touched down.

  
"Only when I have to." She laughed, but her large eyes gave away her weariness. "There was a fire today. Could have used your help."

  
He didn't mind the sentiment when it came from her lips. There was something about her tone - it was mild, free from judgment or expectation. She would have appreciated his assistance, but understood all the myriad reasons he could not - would not - give it. It was a level of maturity he had never thought to expect from her. It made something behind his narrow ribcage hurt.

  
He nodded, noting her eyeing his cigarette. It was like this sometimes, the stress of a long, weary day would draw her to his vices. He took one last drag and cast the glowing end over the balustrade. Calista laughed at his silent disapproval and followed him inside, a small cloth sack against her hip.

  
"What have you brought us today?" He asked. Calista was fond of little gifts and surprises. They had left a trail of found things behind them in an untraceable abstraction - paper lanterns from Hong Kong, a tiny red keychain in the shape of an iconic London phone booth, a paperweight that was in truth a chunk of the Coliseum and another that was from Ayer's Rock. Mementos, it seemed, were her way of holding onto the girl she had once been - naive, selfish, but above all, innocent.

  
"You'll see after I've showered." She informed him, depositing the sack on the kitchen island and passing by to the sleeping quarters. "No peeking."

  
Raising eyebrows in amusement at her secrecy, Johnny complied and wandered out onto the balcony to have another smoke, musing.

  
No matter where they were in the world, she never stopped saving them. He thought it helped to assuage her guilt for no longer being the symbol they wanted her to be. Merely the hero they needed, a paltry gift when viewed through the continually staring collective eye of the mob. She saved them and saved them and saved them, and they thought they were entitled to more. Being her own person was unacceptable. Being her own person in the company of the infamous Johnny Royalle? _Unthinkable_. The tabloids churned out their vile fodder, trying to shame her back into the fold. And yet she was not Janis. Janis' bite was hard, yet she always yielded to them. Calista was mild, gentle, a savior still - but she refused to be tied down, refused to become a commodity. Retro Girl as the world had known her was like a lovely gown she had tried on only to find it fit poorly, and left it behind with minimal regret. He admired her endlessly.

  
Calista emerged, breaking into his thoughts with the scent of honey and flame. She had bathed, and wore a clean white robe, but smoke is a battlefield odor, and lingers. Accustomed to such smells, he did not find it unpleasant. She bore an empty wooden bowl in one hand, and the Sack of Mystery in the other. "The kids gave me these today." She announced, and upended the bag, tumbling a number of small, red-gold fruits that resembled nectarines into the bowl.

  
"How generous." He replied, putting out his cigarette.

  
"Do you want one?" She asked, biting into the fruit. The gleam of sweet juice on her lips drew the eye, and he looked down, studying his lighter very intently.

  
"No, thank you."

  
A wet slice punctuated the silence, and he looked up to see her splitting one in half with a small paring knife. "Here," she offered, leaning forward from her own teak wood lounge chair to his. "Try it."

  
As a rule, Royalle did not care for sweets. Cigarettes cultivated a taste for bitterness that made most sugars seem acrid and cloying. Thin and pale, with a cigarette near-perpetually between his lips, he often did not eat at all.

  
But a glistening slice of fruit held out as an offering in her small hand was too much to resist. He reached for it, but she pulled the fruit away. "You'll get all sticky. Open." She mimed the gesture, opening and closing her mouth in an **O**.

  
Raising an eyebrow, he complied. She deposited the morsel on his tongue with the unhurried care that spoke of long companionship and fondness, fingers brushing his lips, then laughed and returned to her own treat. A sunny smile showed behind her curls as she bowed her head to her task, completely unconcerned with just how far past Royalle's barriers she had trespassed. In many ways, she was still so young.

  
The fruit in his mouth was succulent, with a fresh sweetness and the barest tang of salt and smoke from her fingertips. After the moon rose, alone in his hammock, the flavor would haunt him.


	14. Sedona

"Wouldn't it be fun to visit New York at Christmas?" Calista asked, flipping through the colorful pages of a travel catalogue as they whiled away the afternoon at an outdoor cafe in Sedona. A light breeze fluttered the collar of his shirt, pulled gently at her hair, and wind chimes tinkled melodically on the awning. The table between them was wrought iron with a mosaic of colored glass chips inlaid into its surface. "I've never seen a Christmas tree that big."

  
Johnny sipped an espresso, ever-present cigarette unlit between his fingers as he observed her from behind dark sunglasses. She had her feet up on the chair opposite, legs bent at the knee, tanned and in sandals at the end of autumn. A light sweater kept away the chill of late afternoon. They had moved south with the seasons, avoiding paparazzi while chasing the sun, but now it seemed her thoughts had turned to snow and pretty lights.

  
A crow perched on a cactus nearby and cawed at them. He glanced at it. "New York is an active city." He informed her, tone neutral. He would take her wherever she wanted to go, but Calista had developed an aversion to the public eye that might be challenged in the Big Apple.

  
She took a deep breath, sipping on the mojito she was not old enough to drink in the state of Arizona. Johnny was an indulgent traveling companion. "I know," she said finally, looking at the crow as well. "And I don't want to attract attention if we can help it." He nodded for her to continue. "But we're people too, and we should spend the holidays wherever we want."

  
The crow flew off at the flash of silver in Johnny's hand as he lit his cigarette, pushing the empty espresso cup away. There was a long, thoughtful silence. Calista finished her drink and swung her feet down to tap impatiently at the terra-cotta patio. "So can we go?"

  
The edges of his mouth curved into a smile that was just wide enough to let her know he had been teasing her, and she relaxed. "Of course. We'll go wherever you like." _Always_. "We can leave tonight."

  
Somehow they had become "we" - a unit, harmonious, separate but equal. They both knew well that, when their relationship was stripped down to its purest essence, she required nothing from him but his company. She could have flown herself anywhere on the globe with less inconvenience and expense than flying coach; and had no need of the often lavish lifestyle he afforded her when appearing publicly again would guarantee her fortune. It was their friendship, their affection, their mutual understanding that kept her close. That was more valuable than anything he could have given her, more rarified than any locale she could have requested.

  
Calista smiled, and put her hand over his. "Thanks."


	15. Royal Terrace

The Royal Terrace suite at the Plaza Hotel in New York was nearly ostentatiously luxurious - too palatial, indeed, for Johnny's tastes. But Calista's girlhood dreams of fame and fortune were still close enough behind her, tucked away in the sunny faded annals of memory, for her to be charmed by the opulence.

  
Besides, he had once done the hotel's general manager a great favor in extremis, and Johnny Royalle was not one to forget a debt. The flexibility of his conscience made for strange and often lucrative alliances.

  
"How can we afford this?" Calista asked as if misreading his mind, dropping facedown on the bed and kicking off her shoes. She waved her arms and legs over the hedonistic thread-count of the sheets as if making a snow angel, before wrapping herself inside a cocoon of embroidered duvet. They had arrived from Sedona in the clothes of Sedona, and the bitter welcome of New York City in late November had prickled her skin with gooseflesh. Johnny, on the other hand, was nearly impervious to the cold after his extended boyhood sabbatical on Bear Island.

  
"I have an arrangement with the head concierge, the details of which would bore you." Johnny informed the cocoon, from which only a single lock of blonde hair and one large, blue eye peered. The eye blinked in response, and he heard her muffled giggle as she rolled over again and disappeared from view. Eyeing the shivering pile of blankets, he made a mental note to take her shopping for a winter wardrobe better suited to their surroundings.

  
"I could put on the cape, you know, if it's a problem." She mumbled, still muffled. He opened the french doors to the balcony a few inches and lit a cigarette, looking down twenty floors to survey Central Park at night. Putting on the cape was her way of referring to the publicity, the well-known face of Retro Girl that had been the source of her income while she was absent from his life. Calista didn't need a costume to be a hero, as he had seen in any number of cities throughout their wanderings, but anonymity did not pay well.

  
However, money is of little use to a man who can take what he wants in the blink of an eye. Royalle's concept of morality was rigid only when it counted - he had no compunction whatsoever over using his ability for personal comfort. He shook his head in refusal, then realized the cocoon could not see him. "No, Calista. There's no need for that."

  
The relief radiating from beneath the duvet was nearly palpable, though she said nothing. He smiled, and tossed the cigarette in an arc out into the night, watching it fall down, down, down.

  
A slim, black device hit the bed beside the small mound of duvet, and that single eye peeked out again. "Hmm?" A petite hand with nails painted shell pink crept out and retrieved the iPad, which contained software to access the hotel's many services.

  
"Room service." Johnny instructed. "You haven't had your supper, order whatever you like."

  
"What about you?" She queried, emerging from the blanket like Venus from seafoam. Her hair was tousled, cheeks slightly flushed from overheating while buried beneath the sumptuous fabric. She looked radiant, and he looked away.

  
Instead, he opened the minibar and held up two rather small bottles of scotch and a glass. "My supper is already here."

  
"Johnny," she smiled, drawing out the y sound of his name in a lilting insistence, fondness with only a hint of exasperation. She picked up the device he'd handed her, and ordered him a plate of hors d'oeuvres anyway. He picked at it to humor her, and saved the scotch for later.

  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  
Rockefeller Center at the holidays is busy nearly round the clock. New Yorkers as well as tourists flock to take a turn on the world-famous ice. Prone to stillness and shadow, Johnny had never seen the appeal.

  
He stood on the terrace one night, several days into their visit, watching the lights of the city surrounding the relative darkness of Central Park.

  
"Johnny," Calista breathed softly from behind him, trying not to startle him, and touched his arm. "You're still up?"

  
"So are you." He noted, glancing at her in the half-light. Smoke curled out into the chilly darkness and blew away.

  
"Bad dreams." She replied. She was dressed, soft suede boots pulled over tight jeans - presents, from an incognito shopping excursion during the daylight hours. Despite the shoes, he still had not heard her come downstairs. Perhaps she had not walked.

  
He nodded, looking down to the tiny figures below, heading to unknown destinations in the city that never slept. He felt restless, cooped up in 2000 square feet.  
"Do you want to go out?" She asked abruptly, seeming anxious.

  
He glanced at her again, scanning her face for expression and seeing only large eyes luminescent in the cold moonlight. "If you'd like."

  
She bit her lip, nodded. "Yes. Let's go somewhere."

  
Raising a brow at the somewhere, he held out a hand. "Do you trust me?" His expression, unreadable; silhouetted against the glow of a city at night.

  
She smiled, her first earnest and whole expression since she'd joined him on the terrace, and took his hand. "Of course."

  
Three am is a quiet time for most places, and Rockefeller Center was no exception. A few people wandered through, mainly couples, too caught up in themselves to take notice that the older man walking with a young woman that could have been his daughter were in fact Powers of some note. The rink was, of course, closed - but such things had never been of great import to Johnny Royalle.

  
Helping her lace up her skates was an exercise in distraction, kneeling down like an ill-favored suitor in a fairy tale before a princess on a steel bleacher. She prodded him playfully, trying to coax him out onto the ice with her, but he declined, preferring an observational role. He took up a sentinel's position near the shining tree, a shadow curling smoke like a dragon near the classic symbol of holiday cheer.

  
He had been to New York many times, and had seen Rockefeller at Christmas as a young man, visiting all the landmarks in his newest destinations as young people do. The experiences had, for the most part, left him cold - detached, unwilling or unable to see the beauty of it past the hollow sense of something missing.

  
And then he stood beneath the famous tree in the wee hours of the morning, when the dull roar of the city had died to a low and distant murmur. The colors from the carefully strung lights sparkled against the ice, in the showers of graven snowflakes as she turned and spun, a tiny dancer in plumes of frost and a smile. Her hair sprang out like a halo in the chilly breeze, cheeks and the tip of her nose red, eyes bright and laughing. She spun in an elegant circle before him, before skidding to a stop.

  
"It's been years since I've done this!" She laughed, sketching a playful bow. "Come down!"

  
He declined, pulling another cigarette from the pack and lighting it with a politely dismissive wave. "You go on."

  
Tossing her hair over her shoulder with a teasing huff, she turned on the blades and raced to the opposite end of the rink. Nearby, the bells of Saint Patrick's Cathedral began to toll, signaling matins. A flock of pigeons, damned determined birds even in the face of an east coast winter, cooed raucously and rose into the air. Beneath the storm of fluttering wings, Calista spread her arms and spun, face upturned and joyous with the freedom of burdens forgotten, if only for a moment. _Glorious_.

  
She tottered up to him on the blades, so graceful in flight but clumsy as all mortals are on ice skates off the ice. She was grinning from ear to ear, but shivering; arms wrapped around her petite frame. He took off his blazer and placed it around her shoulders, ignoring her protest.

  
"I don't feel the cold." He told her quietly, studying the bloom of health and vitality on her young face, the sparkle of exhilaration in her eyes. That morning, in the hesitant grey light of a city before dawn, Johnny thought he had never seen anything more beautiful than New York.

  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  
Christmas in the traditional sense of the word was a foreign concept to Royalle. The holiday season had been a time of strife and discord in his childhood home, as most seasons were. And the bitter independence that had characterized his adolescence and young adulthood made him into the type of man who eschewed all platonic or familial company at the best and worst of times.

  
How strange, then, to find himself in an armchair on Christmas morning, watching Calista gleefully tear the wrapping paper from the gifts he'd procured for her, a young woman of nineteen wearing the smile and bright eyes of a girl of ten. A tray with a silver tea service and light breakfast waited off to one side, courtesy of the hotel management, but he had yet to even light a cigarette. Her pleasure was infectious, the uninhibited delight on her face endlessly fascinating.

  
"Thank you! You're the best!" She gushed, this oft-taciturn girl shining with childish enthusiasm; all over a few paltry gifts. But it wasn't the gifts, not really. Calista was not the same girl she'd been two years ago; and while she'd never say it aloud, the fact that Johnny Royalle was the first person who'd made this effort for her was both tragically ironic and strangely beautiful. It was a unique sort of serendipity that hit her in the gut and left her breathless and grinning. She sat on the floor surrounded by festive detritus and with a bright red ribbon tied around one wrist, looking up at him.

  
He inclined his head in a gesture of complacent benevolence, an "it's nothing" shrug under the patterned velvet of his jacket. "There's one more." He pulled a velvet box from an inner pocket. He handed it to her, long fingers holding onto the slim package for a half-second longer than was necessary, as if uncertain about its contents.

  
Calista bit her lip, eyes growing wide with _anxiety-curiosity-recklessness_ , before realizing the box was far too flat and wide to be anything but a necklace case. Breathing out slowly, subtly, she hoped he had not noticed her trepidation. He had, of course. That place behind his ribs throbbed gently in response, but it was a quiet response, dimly recorded for later perusal. His light eyes rested on her, instead, attention fully focused on this last Christmas present.

  
She ran her fingertips along the seam of the box, opening it slowly. Inside, gleaming against burgundy velvet, a tiny pendant rested. One glance made it obvious that the precious thing was of pure gold, delicate but incorruptible. A thin chain, long enough to be wrapped twice around her slender neck, held a small but perfectly crafted three-pointed crown. It was an exact replica of the one Johnny wore on his lapel.

  
"You don't have to wear it out there." He said quietly, indicating with a flick of his eyes the building's exterior and all the vast and grasping public with their greedy stares and judging tongues. "You don't have to wear it at all. I just… don't want you to ever feel alone." He kept his eyes fixed on the gleaming gold, unable to meet her eyes.  
And then he was full of her; her arms around his neck, breath hot in his ear as she babbled her thanks, scent of her hair driving into his brain with a poignant and treasured singularity that he knew at once (with a joy that transcended happiness and fell like Icarus into despair) would never leave him as long as he lived. He patted her awkwardly, refusing to let his hands tremble, unable to bear it and unwilling to let her go.

  
Calista let go first, releasing him from the responsibility of it, and he exhaled in relief to fill the silence. She sniffled a little, picking up the necklace and, carefully, looping it around her neck. It gleamed against her skin ( _as if it belongs there_ **_quiet_** ) and she touched it with one fingertip. "It's beautiful." She said softly. "It's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever given me, Johnny. Thank you."

  
She lifted a hand, laid it over his where it gripped his knee, and gazed up at him; determined to communicate her earnestness. He met her gaze, and nodded, unable to think of a single thing to say, or to find the voice with which to say it.


	16. Modesty

New York in the grey weeks following Christmas was a special kind of depressing, and so after the holidays they had packed their most treasured things - Johnny arranging for less precious items to be sent back to private storage elsewhere - and left the city behind.

  
Calista had asked about ballet, and so they found themselves in Russia - charmed by the request, he had brought her to the place the art form first called home. There is something truly awe-inspiring about watching artists work in their chosen medium. It follows, therefore, that there is something quite special about watching the Bolshoi Ballet company perform in Moscow.

  
Royalle had that appreciation for culture that was second-nature to the well-traveled, but there were precious few that knew of his more refined tastes. He was aware of the image he projected, was at home with the universal loathing that followed him throughout most of the western hemisphere. Villainy in the information age casts a long shadow. He had endeavored all his life to cultivate the persona - a man of smoke and shadows, from humble beginnings and unfailingly selfish. A man with no patience for traditions, no interest in the opinions of others - a man who, surely, paid no tribute to unexpected beauty.

  
He waited in the lobby of the hotel, studying the elegant decor with a bemused expression, thinking of closets and tundras and the privilege of power. The click of heels sounded on the floor above him, and he turned to look, watching as Calista arrived from the upper level. She came into view a step at a time, descending the staircase with one hand resting lightly on the polished brass railing. Her toes, painted red, peeked out from strappy shoes with a punishing heel. Flowing red skirts tapered to a snug bodice that hugged her form from hip to shoulder, sleeveless over bare, toned arms. A gold armband curved around her right bicep, and a high Mandarin collar lent an air of elegance that surprised him. Folds of a crimson cashmere shawl, to chase away the chill of Moscow in winter, draped around her and left her shoulders bare. He lit the cigarette that had dangled forgotten between his lips, giving his hands something to do. The Bolshoi Theater housed some of the finest sights in the world, and he felt he had been spoiled for them. Looking her over, toes to gleaming golden crown, he exhaled the question in a coil of smoke. "Modesty?"

  
Calista dimpled, eyes narrowing like a cat's behind dark lashes, her nose crinkling in that way it did when she was truly amused. "Modesty." She confirmed, twirling to show off the gown to its fullest potential, then took his arm.

  
"Shall we?"

  
She watched the entire show in virtual silence, remaining detached and thoughtful even during the intermission. Her eyes followed the figures onstage hungrily, as if she herself were not capable of such feats of grace and power. Later, after the ballet, her brow furrowed in pensive contemplation.

  
"Penny for your thoughts?" Johnny inquired.

  
"It's sad," Calista mused, staring into the middle distance as they sat across from each other in the hotel lounge, sharing a nightcap. "Odette did everything right and still didn't win." She frowned, bit her lip. "She was good, but she didn't win. The villains won, and no one could even tell the difference. It was like it didn't matter."

  
"I'm not sure that anyone won."

  
"She died, though." A long pause. "You know, the really horrible thing about dying is that you're completely alone."

  
Her calm, dreamy tone chilled him, and he laid a hand on her shoulder. The crown at her throat gleamed as she turned to look at him, and she smiled - the sun, breaking through clouds.


	17. Ghosts

**Get lost** , someone had spraypainted _auf Deutsch_ , as if it were that easy.

The East Side Gallery in Berlin had once been a fascinating jumble of intense, emotional surrealist paintings combined with the shouting into the void of a thousand graffiti artists. A restoration project had changed all that, but the Wall was still a powerful symbol of human frailty, antagonism, and paranoia.

 _Berlin_ , Calista had requested, with a certain bitten-lipped hesitation that made Royalle think she made the decision more out of a sense of duty than a willful whim. The scars of war ran deep in Germany, and a country that prided itself on being progressive and practical was still haunted by the long shadow of its history in an era when most were trying to forget their roots.

She had been melancholy lately, brooding, staying out later and later in an attempt to rescue just one more poor unfortunate soul. Johnny had seen but a little of her, when she emerged from her room in Moscow; had spent his evenings smoking and brooding in parallel silence. She wasn't upset with him, per se. He sensed a deeper pull beneath her silence, growing pains - the last little bit of her innocence slipping away under the constant deluge of human nature.

He suspected that she had chosen Berlin in a bleak attempt to remind herself of her power, to find purpose, as it were. She needed the Wall - emblem of fragile freedom, suffering and liberation - to stoke the fires of determination that had begun to ebb within her. Calista still struggled with the problem of her own identity - she measured her worth in what she could offer to others, by the image they carried of her. Though she shrugged them off and refused to bend to the will of the vox populi in regards to her private life, the howling of the tabloids hurt her deeply. She needed a reminder of her value, her purpose. Watching her in the watery light of winter, golden, lost in thought - Royalle needed no such reminder.

The day was cold and sunny, and they strolled slowly - early morning saw few visitors, mostly locals commuting to and from their various destinations. Royalle had humored her desire to visit the city, as he always did (he could not stop her, at any rate). But he could not bring himself to take her to the Topographie des Terrors, choosing the Gallery instead.

A gust of wind fluttered her scarf, and she tucked it into her collar, glancing up at him with bright eyes. As they stood before one particularly poignant painting, she slipped her hand into his; her skin warm, his cool and dry.

They made a pretty picture, to a bystander. Young and bright, grim and dark; two lone figures standing together in the midst of all the hope and sorrow in the world.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Calista followed mournful strains of music downstairs, tracking the gentle plucking of a guitar like a scent on the wind. She found Royalle seated in the den of their rented loft, a cigarette in his mouth, cradling a black classical guitar. He played left-handed, bent over it in an old familiarity, his lanky frame at home with the instrument. He looked up when she appeared, fingers moving independently on the strings as he greeted her in a plume of smoke.

"Did I wake you?"  
  
"Yeah. It's okay though." She seated herself cross-legged on a cushion, looked up at him as he strummed a lazy arpeggio. "I didn't know you played."  
  
His cigarette twitched, cherry burning red, one raised eyebrow over the barest curve of a smirk. "There's likely a great deal you don't know about me."  
  
It was true. She had seen snapshots of him, glimpses - a story from his childhood, a few whispers of his misspent youth with Diamond. Royalle was notoriously private, but he remained tight-lipped even with her. She knew his habits, his likes and dislikes, that delicate but harmonious understanding of two people who spend a great deal of time together. But she didn't know him, not really. Not his private thoughts and buried fears, not his dreams, if he had any left.  
  
"Why did you kill Wolfe?" She asked abruptly. The question was inaccurate, somewhat inane - many people had killed Wolfe, in their ways. Wolfe was a dark Caesar, falling to the blows of his closest disciples and those who hated him by reputation alone. But few would argue that Johnny Royalle had made sure the charismatic killer was good and goddamn dead. She saw again in her mind, his delicate hands - the same hands that now plied the guitar so lovingly - wrapped around Wolfe's neck. His venomous snarl - _Fuck your legacy, old man_ \- as he popped out of existence and took Wolfe's head along with him.  
  
The guitar fell silent. Johnny stared at her, inscrutable, cigarette glowing fiercely as he took a long drag and exhaled through his nose, lips pressed tightly closed. He pulled it from his mouth with a sigh, tucked it into the first fret of the guitar with a practiced gesture. "Because he had bewitched you, as he once bewitched me. And I knew that killing him was the only way to break the spell."  
  
The silence was heavy, echoing, a velvet blanket over the writhing darkness of unspoken words. Calista could not abide it. She gestured at the guitar, wiggling her fingers slightly to mimic playing. "Don't stop."  
  
Johnny looked her over for a long moment, then retrieved his cigarette and began to play again.  
  
Her voice was soft, thoughtful. "I hated you, you know. For killing him."  
  
His hands faltered, the music hesitating before continuing smoothly on as if he had not heard. His eyes were pained, a lock of hair and shadows concealing the expression from view. She knew it was there, regardless.  
  
"I hated you, but just for a minute." She continued, twisting her fingers together as she gazed at her hands in her lap. "You were right." She did not mention her red eyes, the wax and wane of her powers with the phase of the moon, the troubling tendency towards aggression that she had felt rising up in her like a burgeoning storm. How could she? Such things were in the whispering, paper-thin realms of uncertainty between them, the great gulf between trusting someone with your life and trusting them with your soul.  
  
They sat together till dawn, and Johnny played.


	18. Dogs of War

As Royalle had never truly been part of the club scene, it was not accurate to say he had grown out of it. He found pointless debauchery tiresome but there was an essence to certain clubs, a brash defiance that flew in the face of what was expected, color and lights, youth and beauty baring their teeth at the end of the world. It had been this atmosphere, this jaded hope and electric magnetism, this welcoming din that he had been trying to create in Los Angeles. Give the Powers kids a place they could shine their brightest, while learning to blend in. Where they could learn how to put on the masks, while still safely being themselves. Of course that house of cards had tumbled down, but the fault lay in the execution, not the institution.

And of course, Calista was a club kid still, had never had quite enough of the modern nomadic existence before stepping into Retro Girl's boots. She'd requested a visit to a club for her twentieth birthday, and with the smile back on her face still fresh and fragile, he could not refuse her.

Ingrained with the caution of a homeless child, Calista was not typically given to excess. For her birthday, however, her usual standards had been relaxed. She could not abide the taste of alcohol so she slung back designer drinks in neon colors, saccharine and always with the ubiquitous citrus peel curled fashionably against the side of the glass. Johnny drank scotch, a bottle and a highball on the illuminated glass table by his side, along with the brushed silver cigarette case Calista had given him for Christmas. Calista stayed near him, straying no more than a hundred yards or so to dance. Her repeated requests that he join her were politely declined. There was only so far he could encroach upon the edges of this scene before it became glaringly obvious that he did not belong. He sat in the shadow of an alcove, observing.

A thin man, heavily tattooed and with some sort of monstrous Disneyesque helmet on his head, occupied the DJ booth with a presence typically reserved for cult leaders. The bodies beneath him surged and swayed, completely subject to the puppet strings of bass and treble. Johnny cast a glance over the crowd, barely interested - it was a sight he had seen before, though this _marionettenspieler_ was more talented than most.

Calista, however, was a sight to be seen. She danced as if it was her last night on earth, the blazing sun at the center of her own galaxy; every eye of the group she held enthralled on her. He found he could not take his eyes from her face, from the sleek lines of her form silhouetted against shifting lights. Her dress had seemed suitable earlier that evening, as she applied her makeup and pulled faces in the mirror when she thought he was not looking. It was snug, subtly shiny, and to his surprise, a deep royal blue. It had earned a raised eyebrow, but he had not been unduly concerned - until he observed the small harem of young men drawn to her like moths to a blazing cerulean flame.  
His eyes narrowed but he remained rooted to his chair, long fingertips closing more tightly around the glass until he feared for its structural integrity. She had turned slightly away, hair falling forward to conceal her expression from him. A tall, broad specimen placed large hands on her hips, pulling her back against him, and Johnny tensed to rise, but stopped himself.

 _She is young_. Even his inner monologue spoke through gritted teeth.

They were a triage, a cameo in slow motion, the mortal Adonis blissfully unaware of Royalle's scrutiny, caring only for the nubile form beneath his mauling hands and dancing lights -

But something was wrong. She seemed tense, held in the embrace more by coercion than will; something of the old rabbit-in-the-headlights straining her silhouette and turning her movements robotic. And then Calista looked at Johnny, desperation in her eyes, and mouthed "Help me."

Suddenly all three of them were gone, a sucking pop leaving the glass to shatter on the floor in the abrupt absence of a hand to hold it. Though a few present wondered at the disappearance, there were too many warm and willing bodies left to unite with and explore, too many illicit substances to take the blame for an apparition. Inside the club, all was noise and ecstasy, with no time for silence.

The alley behind the club, however, seemed made of silence.

A light rain had begun to fall, whispering against tin roofs and concrete. Cars passed by on the street beyond, tires against damp macadam, the muted roar of motors. Bass thrummed through the asphalt at their feet, reminding them incessantly of the dark paradise only a few yards away.

But in the scant few inches between Royalle's eyes and the man whose throat he held, all was silence. "Explain yourself." He snarled in Catalan. When a terrified and uncomprehending expression was the only response, he repeated it in Spanish, then Italian. His hand tightened as he spoke, weary of waiting for a response and wishing for the inevitable conclusion.

"You're Johnny Royalle!" The man finally blurted, in English, with an American accent.  
  
Royalle's expression twisted. "Wrong answer." He hissed, and his fingers sank deep, gripping hard.  
  
"Johnny, don't!"  
  
He froze, turned slowly around with his hand still choking the life out of the interloper. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Don't kill him."  
  
"He accosted you, Calista. On your birthday." This last uttered as if it were sacrosanct, as if no ill deeds dare fall on such a day. She would have laughed if the situation had not been so dire.  
  
"Yes. I drank too much, I think." The wild rolling of the bastard's eyes suggested asphyxiation was near. Johnny relaxed his grip infinitesimally, his eyes still on Calista. "I couldn't… turn on my powers." She seemed lost, horrified that the complaint had again crossed her lips. The look on her face alone made him start to twist his hand, but the man in his grip squirmed and she stepped forward, raising a cautioning hand. "Don't kill him. You've already scared the shit out of him, let him go."  
  
The rain was really pissing down now, and he was dying for a cigarette. "He's American, Calista." He warned her, one last attempt to change her mind though her capacity for mercy was one of the things he admired the most. "He'll bring the dogs down on us."

"Let him try." She sniffed, derision covering the fact that she was shivering and tearful.

"The lady is gracious." Royalle growled, so close to the other man's face that he might have kissed him, or bitten his eyes out. "Say thank you."

"Thank you…" wheezed out carefully past the clenching vise of Royalle's hand.

"Calista." Johnny held out his free hand, never taking his eyes from the wastrel in his grip. He felt her slip her cold fingers into his, and in the first blinding illumination of lightning, they were gone. The clubgoer sat down hard on the pavement, smelling of urine and wet alley.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
She'd had far too much to drink, as it turned out. Immediately upon their arrival in the rented bungalow, she had clamped a hand over her mouth and fled to the bathroom. He opened a window, letting in cool night air and the sound of cicadas heralding the pre-dawn hours. Checking the locks on the door to ensure they were secure, he followed her to the bathroom.  
  
Calista was kneeling on the floor, despondent, one arm resting beneath her head on the wide porcelain edge of the jacuzzi. He removed a clean handkerchief from his pocket, ran it under cold water, and crouched beside her. She leaned into him and sobbed, smelling of vodka and rain, trembling fingers twisted tight in his lapel.  
  
"I couldn't feel my powers. It was like they were gone. Like I was numb. If you hadn't been there-"  
  
"I will always be there." He murmured, allowing himself the indulgence of holding her as she cried. She shuddered against him, sobs bigger than she was drawing her in on herself.  
  
"I give my all for them, and for what? For some douchebag to manhandle me on my birthday." She sniffled. "It's not fair."  
  
"This is the life." He replied quietly. "You're a hero."  
  
"Does it always feel this good?" She sighed. The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smirk.  
  
Inch by inch, she relaxed in his arms, till he thought it prudent to release her from his embrace. As quickly as the storm had come, it had passed, and now her eyes were starting to cross as she struggled to focus on him, bleary-eyed as she swayed on the bathroom floor.  
  
"Johnny?"  
  
"I'm here." He smoothed the damp blonde hair out of her face, noting the absence of one earring, intending to swipe the cool cloth over her feverish cheek. But she turned her head, nuzzling his palm. She sighed contentedly, breath hot against his skin. He swallowed and pulled his hand away. "Come on. Let's get you to bed."  
  
"Stay?" Her fingers wove into his jacket again, holding tight.  
  
There was a long pause, before he replied in a tone somewhat rougher than usual - "I'll be close."  
  
The answer seemed to satisfy her. Her fingers relaxed, and she slumped forward. As her limbs appeared unwilling to cooperate, he picked her up and deposited her on the bed, drawing the coverlet up as she curled into the fetal position.  
  
"Goodnight, Calista." He murmured, stepping back from the bed.  
  
"Johnny?"  
  
"I'm here."  
  
She shivered once under the blanket, sighed, and was asleep.  
  
The warm light of the next morning dragged her slowly into consciousness, aided by the vaguely obnoxious singing of birds who were not hungover. Calista forced her eyes open and saw a pair of diamond solitaire earrings in a velvet box on the nightstand, a glass of water with some aspirin, and Johnny Royalle, asleep in a high-backed chair leaning against the wall.


	19. Casablanca

_Somewhere no one knows us_ , she had murmured, in the early golden light of Ibiza, which had somehow grown stale so much more quickly than their previous destinations. Royalle had done his best to oblige.  
  
In Casablanca, a busy port town since time out of mind, no one knew anyone. They stayed indoors, avoiding the heat that was baking down on the whitewashed buildings even in spring. They drifted through days, lolling about an abandoned but well-maintained mansion on the edge of the beach that had been seized by the Moroccan government and then suspiciously forgotten about when Johnny last came to town. The house echoed with silence, thoughtfulness and an unusual distance between them. Calista's demons had chased them from Moscow to Berlin before she had turned to face them down; now it seemed that a few of Royalle's had been whispering in his ear.  
  
He did not share - he never shared, unless prompted - and she did not ask. It was the nature of their relationship, these long silences punctuated by squares of sunlight and dappled shadow, long sighs in cigarette smoke, low murmurs and downcast eyes. They were both private people, accustomed to danger and betrayal. They played their cards close to the vest, even with one another. He would speak, if it was necessary - when he was ready.  
  
He had been painting, lately. He worked late into the evening, a cigarette clamped between his lips, palette in one hand, brush in the other, canvas as wide as a man with arms spread before him on an antique easel. Sometimes she would fall asleep on the chaise watching him, and wake in the wee hours of the morning - a blanket tucked tenderly around her by some unseen hand - to find him still working, glaring at the abstract or poignantly stark patterns on canvas with a frustrated air.  
  
It was after one such late evening that Calista dragged herself to bed at sunrise with a bleary wave through the window to her companion, who was smoking on the wraparound porch, staring intently out to sea. She returned when the sun had rolled west in the afternoon, her hair tousled, wearing a white tank top and pinstriped pajama bottoms. She followed the scent of smoke downstairs, cigarettes and the sweet heaviness of Moroccan incense. Padding barefoot into the drawing room, she saw Johnny with his back to her, staring at the easel with brush poised for its next stroke.  
  
She slipped past him, fumbling for his cigarette case on the ornately carved wooden table. Her small hands turned it over and thumbed the latch. The cigarettes inside looked handrolled, and smelled only faintly familiar, but it was not unlike Johnny to smoke local tobacco when it was available. Placing the end between her lips, she raised his silver lighter and lit it.  
  
At the first inhale, she knew it was not a cigarette. Coughing raucously, her eyes welling with tears, she struggled to catch her breath in a haze of smoke. Johnny smirked, glancing over one shoulder, a joint smoldering in his mouth. "That's marijuana." He informed her blandly.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me?" Calista demanded, voice harsh but not entirely unamused.  
  
"Because I'm high on marijuana." He replied, painting a broad black streak across the canvas in a jagged arc that resembled a mountain range. "Obviously."

The Calista of a few years ago would have huffed her disappointment - or, more likely, lost her temper. _Drugs, Johnny? I thought you were done with this._ She could almost hear her younger self whine, probably crossing her arms over her chest and turning away. Calista liked to think she had matured somewhat in her time away from Los Angeles. And perhaps it was the influence of the truly excellent North African kush in her hand, but she was feeling mellow this afternoon, with no desire to rock the boat. She dropped onto the chaise, folding her legs beneath her and pulling an ashtray close.  
  
Johnny turned at the waist, casting an eye over her, seemingly appraising the situation. "Don't smoke the whole thing." He warned, speaking around the joint in his own mouth.   
  
And then, turning back, added a smoothly curved indigo line beneath the black one. It looked like the silhouette of a woman, lying on her side.  
  
Calista blinked. Their relationship had begun with the power and authority firmly in Royalle's hands - he functioned as protector and guardian, though he never imposed his will on her save in moments where her safety had been directly threatened. She had hardly noticed, that air of watchful protectiveness relaxing into a more comfortable dynamic - supportive, still; reliable and constant… But relaxed. She tried to picture the Royalle of their first meeting, enjoying a companionable afternoon with her, smoke drifting around them - the image would not come clear.  
  
"Pot is illegal in Morocco, you know." Prodding him gently, amusement sparkling in her eyes.  
  
He chuckled. "In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice."  
  
"Nietzsche?" Calista ventured, trying to seem adult and attentive; though any schooling on the finer points of human nature had come from Royalle.  
  
"The Marquis de Sade." He replied, with a raised eyebrow and the slightest hint of a smirk.  
  
Calista made a mental note to Google the name later, not wanting to admit she was at sea - though Royalle knew already, of course. She studied him, the canvas he surveyed so sternly. "What are you painting?" Attempting to exhale the question in smoke as he did, and coughing for the effort.  
  
"Something beautiful." He replied, painting shorter lines of light and shadow in waves over the indigo line. It looked like the play of light over water; or strands of fair and dark in a woman's hair. "To me."  
  
"It's interesting." Her voice murmured low, words sounding slow even to herself. "And soothing." The hand holding the joint drifted down to the ashtray, and she stubbed it out before pushing the shallow silver dish away.  
  
Johnny picked it up absently, adding his own ash to the mix and putting out the tightly-rolled joint now that it had served its purpose. "I wasn't aware you needed to be soothed." He commented mildly, not turning to look at her, though his spine straightened almost imperceptibly.  
  
"I don't." She said too quickly. He set his brush and palette down with care and turned to meet her eyes.  
  
"Really?" Johnny raised an eyebrow at her bitten lip, her hallmark of dishonesty.  
  
Calista laughed, a little off-kilter in the haze of drifting smoke that surrounded them, and he crossed the room, opening a window. She spoke from over his shoulder, words coming easier now that he no longer faced her. "Really. I'm fine. It's just… It's quiet, here." She stood, walked to the canvas, ran her fingertips over the rough grain of it while avoiding the fresh paint.  
  
Johnny returned to the easel, stopping at an uncertain distance between them - closer than arm's length, but somehow still out of reach. His posture did not invite closeness, he seemed on edge. He looked down at her, gaze steady and serious, then broke eye contact and retrieved an actual cigarette with a distracted air. One deep drag, steadying his nerves which had begun to hum in warning; mild intoxication warm beneath his skin. The cigarette hung loosely between his fingertips as he dropped his hand, deposited it in the ashtray. "I thought you wanted quiet."  
  
"I do. I just…" She sighed, addressed the floor. "I like hanging out with you. And we haven't been close, lately."  
  
"I see." He took a single step forward, closing the chasm between them smoothly. "We're close now."  
  
Calista flushed, looking up at him, her heart beating faster. How strange. They had been closer than this, many times. Had battled, had embraced, she had held tight to him as he teleported. But it had never felt like this; this thrumming tension - the look in his eyes. Her lips parted, she stared like a snake before a charmer.  
  
Royalle was not an exceptionally tall man but Calista was a rather short young woman. He loomed over her at this proximity, eyes intense. "And this, Calista?" His long fingers encircled her wrist, her pulse quickening beneath his fingertips. "Is this close enough?"  
  
She blinked, breathing in, and the spell broke. Eyes wide, she swallowed, took a step back. At the first sign of retreat his hand released her wrist and returned to his cigarette.   
He turned back to his painting, taking up the brush again and adding trails of gold to the patterned waves. "That's what I thought."  
  
Calista withdrew, taking the remainder of the joint she had smoked and a box of kitchen matches with her to the porch. She lit it, pulling her knees up to her chest and curving her toes over the edge of the seat, and like the chair's previous occupant, stared intently out to sea.


	20. Demons

Calista had nightmares, at the same time every year. Their first summer together, Royalle had thought it was a fluke, or a natural reaction to the stressors surrounding them. He would hear her crying, late at night, from his office or the bar. Transporting to her side, he would find her sound asleep in the little safe room beneath the club, curled into a ball, sobbing; tears slipping from beneath tightly closed eyelids. The significance had been lost on him, then; he could do nothing but wait out her tears and hope that the clusterfuck tearing apart the city - his clusterfuck, if he was being honest with himself - would blow over and leave her sleep undisturbed.  
  
But then she had walked back into his life, a year or so after the dust settled; and they had spent the summer in Mumbai. In the balmy evening air of India, the nightmares had returned. She'd thrown herself into work, wading daily into the city's slums, undeterred by the humid, scorching weather. But at night, she cried.  
  
This summer, in Morocco; more of the same. But they were closer, had been traveling together for some time. He knew the reason, now.  
  
"No, we can't send someone else. It has to be me." Royalle's voice, insistent and imperious, drew Calista's attention as she emerged from her bedroom. She'd been in bed only a few minutes before, and shivered with the unexpected chill. Royalle's jacket lay over a chair in the hall, and she shrugged it on. It was a grey morning in Casablanca, an unusual occurrence. She lingered in the doorway to the kitchen, and Royalle looked up as she entered, holding up one long finger in a wait gesture.  
  
"Get me an address by tonight. No excuses." He commanded the voice on the other end of the phone. "I have to go."  
  
"Business?" Calista queried, seating herself on a high barstool at the island. He disappeared behind the refrigerator door, retrieving a decanter of orange juice. "Or pleasure?" Her voice was light and teasing, still slightly husky this early in the morning.  
  
Johnny shut the refrigerator, raising an eyebrow at her. "Business." Setting two glasses on the polished wood of the island, he filled them and slid one towards her. "Unless you'd rather I stayed?"  
  
There had been a time, in the not so distant past, when business would have come first, and Calista would have been a regretful worry in the back of his mind. But he had learned his lesson. She would not be caged, a songbird awaiting his return; and he could not abide the rifts that formed between them when she left in anger. Now, when she begged - _Johnny, stay_ \- he stayed.  
  
But this morning she shrugged, and sipped her orange juice, tucking hair that was still unruly from sleep behind one ear. "No, that's okay. Just let me know when you're back." She peered at him over the rim of her glass. "And be careful."  
  
That earned both brows raised. "Of course." He lit a cigarette, turning away from her to exhale. "Did I wake you?"  
  
"No. I got hungry." She stretched, slitting her eyes like a cat as her spine realigned itself beneath thin white cotton, confiscated blazer hanging open on her petite frame. Johnny glanced away, one fingertip tracing the edge of his glass.  
  
"Eggs?" He offered, speaking around the cigarette held loosely in his lips as he retrieved a pan from the hooks above them.  
  
"Ooh, yes please."  
  
The next few moments were filled with that comfortable domestic hush, the hiss and sizzle of eggs frying in a pan, the clatter of cutlery. Royalle - by bizarre coincidence - made eggs in much the same way Calista's mother had, with butter and a pinch of paprika; and she felt a pang of not-unpleasant nostalgia on the rare occasions he cooked for them. Or rather, for her. Royalle himself had nothing, pouring a cup of black coffee to follow his cigarette aperitif and leaning against the sill of the open window.  
  
"You should eat more." Calista commented, chasing a particularly fluffy bit of egg around with her fork.  
  
"Why?" He chuckled, smoke obscuring his mirth. "Am I not the picture of youthful vigor?"  
  
"Johnny," she chided, eyes laughing. "No, seriously, do you want some?" She held out her fork.  
  
"I'm fine." He finished his cigarette, fastidiously washed the cup and set it aside. "I'll be out late tonight. Don't wait up. I'll look in on you when I get back."  
  
"Wait." Taking a deep breath, she held out her hand. He took it, rubbing the ball of his thumb over her knuckles, and met her eyes. "Be careful." She said again, more insistently. There were circles under her eyes, upon closer inspection; they were slightly red-rimmed from crying.  
  
His mouth thinned, the sight of her and the pressure of her hand in his only lending weight to his resolve. "I promise." He released her hand, took a step back, and disappeared.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Death is not a weighty thing, anymore. The notion is bandied about; we kill one another in games and films for amusement almost as often as we kill one another in life. Pettiness, jealousy, wrath, these are all reasons to take a life. But it is a selfish gesture, generally. They hurt _me. I_ wanted revenge. It is unusual for for someone to pledge a life, their own or another's, to someone else. To say, and mean, _I will kill for you. I will die for you._  
  
_I want you to help me kill my father._  
_  
Now that, I can help you with_.  
  
Some things do not need to be said. Nightmares, at the same time every year; marking the anniversary of some great horror, some unspeakable trauma. Nightmares, resurrecting the memory she'd run from for years, trying to forget. Marking the evening her father had finally beaten her mother to death, and gotten away with it.  
  
Royalle understood about running. It was what he did, what he was best at. He could not kill demons for his own sake - but he could kill them for her.  
  
Her father didn't try to hide. Calista's identity was less entrenched in the trappings of fame than her predecessor's had been; the man probably still pictured her as the helpless runaway that had fled his clutches years before. He had no idea how powerful she had become, once freed from his tyranny. He had no insight into her life, knew nothing about her in adulthood - her position of relative renown, her whereabouts… her friends.  
  
If he had known, he may have tried to flee. There were many places to hide, even in rural Florida. It would have delayed the inevitable, for a little while. Royalle's ability was legendary but even he needed a destination in mind before hurling himself into the void. But the drunken lout did not concern himself with Calista, did not know who her friends were. Could never have been prepared for Johnny Royalle, dark and lethal, appearing in his living room near midnight.  
  
The man was middle-aged, though drink and meanness made him look much older. He was larger than Royalle; taller, broader, with a beer gut and a stained athletic tank. Peering into his spluttering face, Royalle could see no similarities to the girl who waited for him in a beach house on the other side of the world. She had clearly gotten her looks from her mother. He found the idea satisfied him, that she would take nothing from her father and that the man would leave nothing of himself in this world when he left it.  
  
Secor toppled backwards, tumbling out of his chair as he scrambled to get away. _Don't get too close to him_ , was the repeated media warning, whenever Royalle found himself on the wrong side of the law. _Don't let him touch you_. It was good advice.  
  
Useless, ultimately; but good.  
  
Royalle stood where he had appeared, his posture relaxed. He had teleported with a cigarette in his hand and now he raised it to his lips and lit it, an automatic gesture, one he had cultivated to quell the queasiness of teleportation but which was now merely force of habit. "Mr. Secor." He greeted calmly.  
  
"You're…"  
  
"Yes, I know." Johnny exhaled, smoke filling the grimy living room. They were in a trailer. He looked about himself, taking it all in. This was where Calista had grown up, the bastard had never moved. The carpet was cheap and tacky, one step up from astroturf. Dishes piled up in the sink. An old tube tv played infomercials, its sickly multicolored light glimmering off empty beer cans and the sheen of sweat on the other man's upper lip. Her mother had died there, in the tiny kitchenette, bleeding from a head wound. He'd seen the police report. Royalle took a deep drag, adjusted his cufflink, calming himself. It was important that Secor understand the reason for his coming.  
  
Secor stood, apparently emboldened by Royalle's casual manner. Johnny stared at him, waiting for the inevitable -  
  
"What do you want?" Slurring, in aggression, in drunkenness.  
  
"I'm here to help you shuffle off the mortal coil." At the dullard's uncomprehending look, Royalle continued. "Do you know where your daughter is, Mr. Secor?"  
  
The other man's features twisted into a grotesque snarl. "That little bitch? Probably not even mine. Just like her mother, though. Took off when things got tough. Haven't seen her for years, except once on the tv." A sly grin, a horror of rotten teeth and lechery, as recognition dawned. "With you. You enjoying her?"  
  
Teleportation is instantaneous, and yet Royalle could not remember ever moving so fast. He wrapped both hands around the larger man's throat, and Secor immediately began to struggle. He forgot his ability, forgot the other man's size, forgot everything but the hate rising up in his throat and threatening to strangle him. He dug long fingers into yielding flesh, and squeezed. Secor swung, flailing incompetent blows into Johnny's thin sides, but he held on grimly, barely aware of them.  
  
"I promised her I'd help her kill you. Did you know that?" He hissed, glowing tip of his cigarette close enough to scald the flesh near Secor's gasping mouth, reveling in his struggle. "She is perfect, your daughter. Forgiving, genuine, ferociously brave. No thanks to you." He let him go, gripping the man's upper arms and smiling in a parody of fraternal fondness. "I've never touched her. But _this?_ This I'm really going to enjoy."  
  
Secor blinked, and Royalle was on the opposite end of the room - with his arms. The man staggered, screaming, and fell - alcohol is a blood thinner, and he was already going into shock before Royalle dropped the severed limbs.  
  
"Stay awake," he said mildly, tapping his cigarette over the blood-soaked carpet, a bit of ash fluttering languidly down. "We have a lot to discuss."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
In the end, despite his best efforts, the cleanup took longer than the act itself. Royalle deposited the various bundles that had once been Mr. Secor of south central Florida in the Everglades, bait for the alligators. Then he took a few bottles of bottom-shelf whiskey (apparently awaiting a celebration that would now never come) and a can of gasoline from beside the back step, and doused the trailer. He stood on the front lawn, smoking a cigarette, listening to the sound of cicadas and crickets, and a dog howling in the distance. When the cigarette had burned down to the filter, he tossed it through the open front door, and watched Calista's miserable childhood go up in flames.  
  
Finished. He felt no guilt, did not even consider it. It was something that someone should have done for himself, for Annabelle. Something that Calista's father had earned a hundred times over even before the insult to his daughter crossed his lips. Is a man who murders a murderer absolved of the crime? The conundrum did not trouble him, contemplation of it leaving him cold. No guilt, only the spike and ebb of adrenaline making his motions jerky, inefficient - and the lingering uncertainty of Calista's reaction when she divined what he had done.  
  
He touched his breast pocket, ensuring that the souvenir he'd secured was still there, and took himself home.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Despite his earlier admonition, Calista was awake and reading a book when he returned, knees pulled up to her chest, a scented candle burning in her room. He knocked gently on the door and she looked up as he entered.  
  
"You're still awake."  
  
"Couldn't sleep." She said, clearly pleased to see him. She set the Kindle down, sitting up, and then noticed the way a few small splotches of crimson decorated his dark suit. "Oh my god, are you okay?"  
  
Johnny looked down at himself. "Ah. Yes, excuse me." He disappeared, and Calista leapt out of bed, heading downstairs in the more traditional way. His room was at the end of the first-floor hall, opening out onto the porch - the door was shut upon her arrival, but she swung it open without waiting for an invitation. He raised an eyebrow at her in a floor-length mirror, torso bare as he unfolded a clean shirt and pulled it on. She opened her mouth, then shut it again, nonplused. Stepping forward, she tried again.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
He reached in his jacket pocket, the garment itself rumpled and draped over a chair. "I went to retrieve this for you." He hesitated, studying the small square in his hands for a long moment before holding it out, with a gesture of deference, to her.  
  
Calista accepted the offering in trembling fingers, because she had recognized the photograph before even touching it. It was a polaroid of her, at her fifth birthday party; her mother beaming with pride over a homemade cake in the waxy golden glow of birthday candles. The Retro Girl tattoo was bold on the blonde woman's hand as she hugged her daughter. A neighbor had taken the photo - Calista's father had been at the bar and had gotten in a fight with another blue-collar waste, not returning home till the following day. In the realm of birthdays, of salvageable memories from her childhood, it was the holy grail. Her eyes filled with tears as she ran a fingertip over the faded visage of her mother. The photo was worn, old - it had hidden beneath the floorboards of her childhood bedroom for years. But it was intact, precious beyond belief. "Where did you get this?"  
  
"You know where." He told her, eyes dark. His fingertips twitched to reach for a cigarette, to soothe the creeping unease in the back of his mind, the anxiety that she would not approve.  
  
Calista stepped toward him carefully, approaching him with the care and patience reserved for predators in the wild. Now that she was close, could look him in the eye, she could feel the frenetic energy rolling off of him in waves. She reached up, one hand pressing the photo to her heart while the other touched his face. She was gentle, fingertips brushing over his cheekbone, thumb hugging the curve of his jaw. "Is it over?" She asked quietly.  
  
He shut his eyes, fighting the urge to tremble beneath her touch. "Yes."  
  
"Did he suffer?"  
  
When he opened his eyes to meet hers once again, they were nearly black, pupils dilated to the furthest reaches of the iris, fierce. " _Yes_."  
  
"Johnny." She caressed him, her hand cupping his cheek, fingertips stroking his hair. "Were you careful?"  
  
"I was." He omitted mention of his blind rage, the bruises rising on his ribs. He would never outright lie to her, but this moment was not about him. He watched her, tense, unsure what to make of her liquid eyes or affectionate touch.  
  
Carefully, she slipped the photo into the pocket of her pajamas, and closed the few inches between them, wrapping her arms around him. Her grip pressed against his injured ribs, and he inhaled sharply, the sound covered by her whimper as she buried her face in his chest. Gingerly, he returned her embrace, feeling her shudder with effort to avoid crying. His ribs complained at the contact, the strain, but he would have walked through fire for her with as little concern.  
  
"Cry if you need to." He murmured, one thin hand twining into her hair.  
  
"No." She said firmly, the sound of a bitten lip in her voice. "I'm done crying over him."  
  
It is a very great gift and a hideous responsibility when a murderer promises, _I will kill for you_. The responsibility settled on Calista's young shoulders and she tested its weight, adjusting to the sensation - finding herself more comfortable than she had been without it. That chapter of her life, with all its screaming ghosts, was closed. Because of Royalle. He could have demanded her help, but had set her free from it instead. From the burden of decision, from the savagery of action. _Free_.  
  
"Thank you."


	21. Borrowing

One thing Royalle insisted upon was good tailoring. He had never had the luxury of it as a boy - trousers always too short, outdated sweaters too baggy on his tall, lanky frame. He was lean as an adult, thin and forbidding. He did not delude himself. He was not, and had never been, the object of aesthetic appreciation in the way Diamond or Olympia were. He had foregone heroism and all the benefits that came with it, preferring instead to make his own way in the shadows. The idea of a woman (or anyone) interested in him for only his looks or fame was repellent, at any rate. He valued a higher form of currency.  
  
His preference for well-made clothes was for comfort's sake, primarily - teleportation is a simpler matter when one's clothes fit snugly in all the right places; and though the fact was never admitted even to himself, he had never really gotten over the ridicule of being the sallow, awkward boy in short, faded denims. So he had them made, and made well - boots tooled in Milan, sleek leather pants, suits and jackets in various dark hues. And button-down shirts in abundance, in dark hues and pinstripes - black, charcoal, eggplant and silver.  
  
He had never really given much thought to it, in truth. He expressed his tastes in brief to his assistant, a woman in her late twenties who was a great respecter of privacy and exceptionally good at international networking. He suspected she may be a Power herself, or simply an unusually gifted student of languages. Either way, she ensured all his needs were met.  
  
Well. Most of them.  
  
His shirts had never garnered quite so much attention when they were on his own body. A few buttons here, some silver cufflinks there, and he paid them no further mind. On Calista's body, however, they were of much greater interest.  
  
Too much. He turned his back on the tableau in the living area, Calista with her bare legs up on the ottoman, doing that peculiar thing with her feet that she did when she thought she was alone - knees bent, curving her slightly long and painted toes around the edge of the ottoman as if she were a bird, perching. He glanced back over his shoulder, wondering if he should announce his presence. She was sketching something - it looked like a bird, ironically - and nibbled the end of the pencil with a tiny frown of concentration. He rolled his eyes in an expression of long suffering, and turned away from her again.  
  
"Good morning, Calista." He announced, flipping the switch on the coffeepot which had been left ready for them by some unseen denizen of the housekeeping staff. She turned to look at him, pencil still in her mouth. As if realizing belatedly how she looked, she pulled the pencil out and smiled at him; a lopsided, hesitant thing.  
  
"Morning!" She chirped, a little too brightly.  
  
"I see you've discovered my spare closet." He nodded at the shirt that hugged her petite frame. It was a deep shade of indigo, the top and bottom buttons undone, sleeves rolled up over her elbows. She was too short for it by a significant margin, which was a small mercy.  
  
"I didn't have anything to wear to bed." Came the reply, balancing on the edge between cheery and plaintive that showed she knew she might be in trouble. "The laundry service hasn't come back yet. Don't be mad."  
  
He poured coffee, scalding and black, and raised it to his lips. It burned him. _Good_. "I'm not."  
  
Calista seemed taken aback, and he could have chuckled at her expression if he had not been using hot coffee as a punitive measure. "Oh." She paused, narrowed her eyes. "Really?" She smiled, a little tentative, clearly disbelieving but wanting to believe, which was at least a start. He understood the sentiment, the agony of a beaten child learning to trust again. "It's a nice shirt," she added, running her fingertips over the lapel, appreciating the fabric. It was an innocent gesture, made without agenda, and he hated himself for how he could not tear his eyes away.

"Keep it." He told her, picking up the newspaper from the table beside her for something to do with his eyes and hands as he strode past. "I told you. I'll never be mad at you."  
  
She stared after him as he stepped out onto the porch, door rattling gently open and shut. Removing the pencil from behind her ear, she returned to her drawing, a tiny smile curving her lips. 

 


	22. Allegiance

The part of "vocational heroism" (as it was now referred to by media talking heads and the internet) that Calista had admired the most as a child was the public face. The cutting of ribbons and kissing of babies. The shiny red suit. The smackdowns handed out to deserving villains, delivered from the perfect camera-friendly angle to the roar of applause.  
It was the part she loathed the most, now. She had grown up, seen human nature at its finest and most abhorrent. Learned the true face of the mob. Meetings with her agency grew more and more tiresome, and the up-and-comer "fresh face" that had been assigned to her PR team had a personal crusade he insisted on pushing each time they met. As a new quarter had begun, it was time to reevaluate their branding, and the agency had insisted she fly in "just for an afternoon" to meet with her shiny new chief publicist, Todd Avery.  
  
"If you'd just… distance yourself from Royalle, we could stop calling you in for these unpleasant conferences and just halt this whole public tailspin." He spread his hands genially. His tone was nearly paternal with condescending and phony affection. _I am a friend to you. I only want the best for you._ Professional platitudes, guaranteed to line his pockets if she'd only take the bait. But Calista was done catering to the will of the people.  
  
"I don't remember asking for your opinion on Johnny Royalle." She said smoothly, the man himself present in every line of her though he was thousands of miles away. The carefully tailored business suit, fitted to her more feminine frame. The gold crown gleaming at her throat. The straightness of her spine, rigid and self-assured in sensible pumps. On any other day, the ensemble would have looked like a costume, a poorly-fitting parody. But she had chosen it especially for today's discussion, knowing she would be drawing strength and inspiration from her companion's animus.  
  
"He's toxic-" Avery looked as if he would swallow his tongue, as Calista rummaged in her purse and calmly pulled out a cigarette. She tucked it into a long ebony holder, and lit it. She smoked rarely even at home, and never with a holder; but there was a time and a place for theatrics. "There's no smoking in here, m'am!"  
  
"Stop me." Calista looked him up and down coolly, no mean feat when the publicist towered over her by several inches even with the heels. "Tell me again your opinion on my personal life. I'm listening."  
  
The publicist drew himself up and gave it one last shot. Calista had to admire his spunk. "Everyone knows he's a criminal."  
  
"Really?" Calista cocked her head, every inch the student surpassing the master. "He's been acquitted for every charge that was ever brought against him."  
  
The publicist sneered with contempt. "Only because he weaseled out of-"  
  
With a light shove in the center of his chest, Calista knocked the publicist to the opposite wall. "He's a hero." She commented, voice beginning to show the strain of containing her anger. She looked aside to master her emotions, tapping the cigarette over the glossy mahogany conference table. "And he's the best friend I've ever had. If you insult him, you insult me. Are you insulting me, Mr. Avery?"  
  
"No m'am." The man stammered meekly, staggering to his feet.  
  
Calista huffed, nostrils flaring slightly in her indignation, glaring around the office space as if assessing it and finding it lacking. "You know, I don't think I'll be doing business with you anymore." She informed Avery, without granting him the courtesy of looking him in the face. "I think we're headed in different directions, professionally. You can have my files sent over to Claire Gibson, she manages Royalle's accounts-"  
  
"Ms. Secor, please." Avery placed himself in front of her, blocking her way. "He'll destroy your career, he's bad for you. He's not like you."  
  
Calista raised her chin, glaring at the hapless publicist, and exhaled a plume of smoke into his insistent, interfering face. "How do you know what I'm like?" She shouldered him aside, none too gently, and walked out of the office.  
  
"People will hate you for this!"  
  
"Let them."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
"I heard from Claire this evening." Johnny said, handing her a glass of Riesling. He held the glass for a moment too long, her fingertips brushing his, and she smiled the slit-eyed smile that was her expression of supreme contentment.  
  
"Yeah?" She teased. "What about?"  
  
"She's not a publicist, Calista. She… manages things, and does it well. But she's not equipped to handle Retro Girl."  
  
Calista shrugged. "I don't think I really need a publicist anymore."  
  
Royalle raised an eyebrow. "Retro Girl hanging up the suit? How intriguing."  
  
"Don't be so dramatic. I just don't think I need a publicist. It's about the work, not the payoff. I already have everything I need."  
  
"Everything?" He looked at her, eyes dark. She stared back, unable to break the connection, space between them humming like a harp string gently plucked.  
  
"I…" She licked her lips, blinked, smiled to ease the tension. "Almost everything."  
  
He smirked, gazing out the window to offer her some respite from the intensity of his stare. "I see."  
  
"Johnny?"  
  
"Hmm?" The familiar click and flare as he lit a cigarette, angular features in profile.  
  
"Who's the Marquis de Sade?"  
  
He chuckled, a throaty rumble. "Haven't looked it up yet?" At her glare he continued. "A French aristocrat and philosopher. He wrote several books."  
  
"About what?"  
  
He quirked an eyebrow. "Hedonism and debauchery, mostly."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Sex."  
  
Calista turned red to the roots of her hair. "Why do you know so much about him?" She pressed, feeling baselessly combative and also strangely riveted.  
  
The other eyebrow went up. "I like to read, Calista."  
  
"I'll bet you do." She mumbled, sullen and annoyed for some indefinable reason. A long silence followed, Royalle smoking and watching her from the corner of his eye. She seemed irritated, a slight crease between her brows. When she spoke again, the change in topics was expeditious. "Claire's pretty."  
  
"I hadn't noticed." Royalle replied, and it was true. He hadn't. Simons' de facto replacement did her best work for him when left to her own devices. Claire was competent and efficient and morally flexible inasmuch as was required to function in his employ. She could keep a secret, never asked questions and had a sort of ruthless pragmatism that one didn't often see in the temp pool he had drawn her from. He suspected she was a Power, as the ability to speak seventeen languages (that he was aware of) was uncommon amongst secretaries. He liked her, in the vague way that one likes a useful appliance or reliable tool, and paid her well. But as they communicated most often via phone or email, he could remember no defining features about her physical appearance whatsoever. In the realm of romantic interest, Royalle could be somewhat… single-minded.  
  
Calista snorted, drawing his thoughts back from trying to recall if Claire was a brunette or a redhead. Brunette, he thought. Perhaps. At her scoff, he tilted his head. "Does her appearance offend you?"  
  
She looked down, both hands wrapped around the stem of her wineglass, picking at her nails. She appeared positively disconsolate, sullen and withdrawn. "No."  
  
Johnny stared at her, putting out his cigarette to better attend to her abrupt change in mood. "Calista."  
  
"What?" She asked somewhat peevishly, her lower lip pressed forward in a pout.  
  
 _Ah._ He had to resist the urge to smirk at her petulance, despite the way his insides suddenly seemed to be made of fluttering paper. "Are you jealous?"  
  
She gaped at him, startled out of her sulk. "I…" She stared, pale eyes in firelight the picture of innocence and naivete. He would have believed himself deluded, if not for the waver of the wine in her glass, giving the lie to the way her hands trembled. Slowly, deliberately, he took the glass from her and set it aside.  
  
"Calista." Royalle said again, and she had that look on her face that nearly broke him every time; that dreamy, uncertain, warm stare - a flower on the edge of blooming. His heart thudded insistently behind his ribs, and he reflected grimly that he was too old to be putting the organ through this abuse. "Are you?"  
  
"Am I what?" She said softly, gaze steady if slightly unfocused.  
  
"Jealous?"  
  
Calista gasped, a girl awaking from a dream. "I… I…" Her fingertips had crept, like a sleepwalker, across the sofa towards him. She pulled her hand back, looking at it as if she did not know where it had acquired such audacity. "I… have to go. To bed. Um. Tired." She rose abruptly, backed out of the room with a nervous little laugh that sounded alien from her throat. "Goodnight!"  
  
Johnny sighed, letting out a breath he had not been aware he'd been holding, and put his head in both hands, carding long fingers through his hair. "Goodnight, Calista." He replied to the empty room. She'd be the death of him.


	23. Indulgence

_The bonds were superficial, a token. Royalle could have teleported anywhere in the world instantly, freeing himself from the silk scarf that tied him to the headboard. But a man who'd spent three willing years in the Shaft before the invention of the drainer knew something about patience and reward._  
  
 _He generally prided himself on his reserve, but writhed beneath the girl that straddled him. She leaned forward, blonde hair tousled, pale eyes slitted and smug. Raising a spoon from a porcelain bowl, she lowered it carefully, ignoring the warning in his wide eyes._  
  
 _He hissed out a curse, tendons straining against the silk. Calista frowned at him, a determined pout, and lowered her lips to his chest. Eyes rolling back, he groaned._  
  
 _She giggled, leaning forward to whisper in his ear, rolling her hips down in a deliberate grind. Royalle gasped as her lips touched his skin. "I knew you couldn't keep quiet."_  
  
 _"Jesus Christ, Calista."_  
  
"Hmm? What?"  
  
Johnny blinked, staring at his companion across the kitchen island. She was perched on a barstool, wearing his shirt over a white tank top and holding a pint of coffee ice cream. She dipped a spoon into it, holding the utensil out as if in tribute.  
  
"Did you want some?"  
  
Johnny swallowed, rising to his feet in a jerky, graceless motion. He backed away a half-step, before glancing downwards and then back up at her in an uncharacteristically anxious manner. "No. Thank you. I… I have to go." And vanished with a pop.  
  
Calista raised an eyebrow at the empty barstool across from her, spoon still poised midair. "Hmm. Weird."


	24. Fly

The brittle crash of broken glass woke Calista in the night, and she shot upright in bed, gasping. "Johnny?" She called softly, glancing around her bedroom, swathed in shadows. When no response was forthcoming, no reassuring pop or whiff of cigarette smoke to answer her call, she leapt out of bed; creeping softly downstairs, one hand skimming along the banister, the other tensed to swing.  
  
"Johnny?" Her urgent whisper echoed back to her, and her heart beat faster. She mentally ticked off her list of enemies, a small and unconcerning collection, and none of them likely to know her whereabouts. When she tried to consider Royalle's list, on the other hand, the sheer scope of it overwhelmed.  
  
The light in the kitchen was on, and she heard scuffling therein; the crunch and gritty scrape of boots on broken glass. Rising from a crouch, she stepped into the light, prepared to do battle - and sagged in relief. "It's you."  
  
He glanced at her. "I woke you. Sorry."  
  
Calista peered at him, her eyes adjusting slowly to the light. He seemed unwell; suit rumpled, features drawn in a scowl, his movements inefficient and somehow aimless. When he bent to pick up a shard of glass, he swayed, and she realized he'd been drinking.  
  
"Let me help you." She placed a hand on his arm, and he shook her off, lip curling in a snarl. She stepped back, shocked, her hand still raised as if in defense. He had never reacted to her with anger, not once. Her expression was utterly crestfallen, large eyes filling with tears and doubt.  
  
Royalle saw it, and turned to face her. He looked dismayed - more than that, devastated. His eyes gazed up at her from the bottom of a deep black well, drowning. "I'm sorry." He looked at the mess on the floor, spilled bourbon and shattered crystal, the remnants of a highball he had cast down in a fit of rage and grief. His expression twisted, almost unwillingly, into a self-deprecating grimace. "I'm drunk, you see."  
  
Calista's heart pounded, her hands starting to shake. Rationally, she recalled all the occasions they had consumed alcohol together, and knew that this occurrence was highly unusual. The irrational part of her, however, remembered her father when he was neck-deep in a case of beer; and screamed at her to flee. She shut her eyes, balling her hands into fists until her fingernails pressed into the soft flesh of her palms; and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. _Johnny would die before hurting me_. Opening her eyes, moderately calmer, she realized his left hand was bleeding, a shallow cut across the mound of Apollo. She reached out again, fingertips hesitating an inch from his hand, and said again, "Let me help you."  
  
Taking a deep, shuddering breath that was almost a sob, Royalle sank to the floor beside the broken glass, dropping his forehead into his uninjured hand. He sat with one knee up and one folded, eyes closed. Calista reached for a clean towel and the first aid kit some conscientious housekeeper had placed beneath the sink.  
  
"Today's the day Annabelle died." He informed her in a monotone, eyes still closed. Calista paused, dabbing antiseptic onto the cut, before resuming her activity, trying to keep her movements slow and gentle.  
  
"I couldn't save her. I tried for so long. It's harder, you know? To teleport somewhere you don't want to be." His voice was a rasp, so low she could barely hear it. "I was afraid. I couldn't make myself go. I wanted to stay away, keep myself safe… More than I wanted to save her."  
  
She tied the surgical tape in place over a snug gauze bandage. It was an imperfect job, Calista was no ideal nurse, but it would hold. "It wasn't your fault," she said softly, attempting now to heal his heart.  
  
Royalle scoffed harshly. "Wasn't it? What about Sky Terrace? The nightclub?" He quivered, shifting restlessly, looked as if he were too tired even to weep for his friends and failures. "Today marks the anniversary, the beginning of a long legacy of cowardice."  
  
"Johnny," she reached for him and he pulled back.  
  
"Don't touch me! I…" _I don't deserve your pity._ His eyes stared at the floor, glassy and distant.  
  
Lower lip emerging in a stubborn pout, she glared at him and, deliberately, shifted her body closer to his and wrapped her arms around him tightly. He shuddered, a rough sigh escaping him, before placing his hands between her shoulderblades and allowing himself to be held.  
  
Long moments passed, her cheek pressed against his neck, feeling his pulse; pounding at first, then as his breathing evened, it grew slower, more regular. When she thought the time was right, she pulled back, looking him in the eye.  
  
"Have you ever flown?" She whispered conspiratorially, a small smile curving her mouth, making her look mischievous even in selflessness.  
  
He knew, of course, that she did not mean in a plane. "No. Fallen." He remembered Wolfe, Diamond; clasped to him in freefall, air whistling past them at terminal velocity. She cocked her head, looking at him questioningly, and he clarified. "Like skydiving."  
  
"Oh. Would you like to?"  
  
"Now?" He looked at her incredulously. She extricated herself from his arms and scrambled to her feet. Chilled as the alcohol began to leave his system, he silently mourned the warmth and closeness.  
  
Calista held her hand out to him. "You have somewhere better to be?" Without waiting for a response, she took his uninjured hand and hauled him to his feet. Considering the top of her head barely cleared his jaw, she was much stronger than she looked. "Come on."  
  
She led him carefully around the broken glass and out the back door. They stood in the yard, staring up at the moon.  
  
"Put your arms around me."  
  
"Calista…"  
  
"Like this." She stepped close, flush against him from chest to thigh, and wrapped her arms around his torso, locking her wrists behind him. The fabric of his suit smelled like bourbon and cigarettes, and he swallowed as she rested her cheek against his chest. Carefully, he placed his arms around her; and nearly choked when she wriggled against him. "Tighter. I won't drop you, but you have to hold on."  
  
He complied, with a certain degree of hesitation; and she took a deep breath, looking up at him once more. "Okay, here we go." She gave a small, wry smile, and they rose several inches off the ground. Royalle could not resist glancing down.  
  
"You ready?"  
  
"Yes." His mouth thinned infinitesimally, indicating that he was perhaps not as ready as he let on.  
  
With barely a thought, they rocketed upwards. He stared at her eyes, noting the glow, eerily similar to Wolfe's, to the victims of Sway. It was a small consideration, dwarfed by the swoop and plummet of his insides. She had adapted somehow, made the power her own. She bore them higher with no effort, laughing as they rose, till the earth was lost in misty dimness several thousand feet below.  
  
Rotating slowly, she grinned with abandon, her hair wild about her face, cheeks flushed in moonlight and the distant glow from the city. "Do you like it?"  
  
Johnny nodded, throat tight, eyes wide. He was unable to speak. It was exhilarating. The speed, the dizzying height. The way she held him tightly in her arms, as if he were something of value. Promising she would not let him fall.


	25. Sakura

While they differed in opinion on the heat, it was civil unrest, ultimately, that drove them from North Africa. Calista did not tend to linger overlong near problems she could not solve; it made her moody, prone to violence, residual aggression from Wolfe's DNA mingling with her own natural propensity for saving the day.  
  
On certain nights when the moon was bright and the air was cool and clear, a thug or looter would get a vicious beating rather than a quick takedown, bracing lecture and free trip to the police station. Johnny tried to pretend he did not notice, these nights, when the red of her suit was dappled with a brighter crimson. Lightly, always a mere sprinkle, no true cause for alarm - yet he noted it. He tried to pretend he was not concerned for her. He tried to pretend that there wasn't a base appreciation hiding behind impassivity - the undermind, the dark other where all the ugliest parts of him were kept, looked upon her occasional bouts of savagery and approved. Vehemently.  
  
He did not think any of his attempts were entirely successful. She knew him too well. But they lived in a world where things left unspoken were a way of life. It suited them. Naming a thing gives it power, and they both had so many ghosts and demons nipping at their heels.  
  
So they moved on. Calista's eye turned further east, and they found themselves in Kyoto at cherry-blossom time. The diaphanous blooms were late this year, a cold winter yielding, at last, to a sunny, fragile spring. It was a relief, to be here. They dallied in gardens, Calista eating sweet ice and takoyaki from street vendors. She had put on a little weight in their travels, and grown another inch or so - the last bit of metamorphosis for her young body, from girl into woman. She complained that her suit no longer fit and it would have to be replaced. Johnny calmly replied that he had noticed no difference; but if she wanted it replaced then, of course, it would be replaced. He had in fact noticed, privately dissenting from Calista's opinion, but thought it best to not give voice to those musings.  
  
The hotel she'd chosen for the duration of their stay was an old one, steeped in history and tradition. Upon their arrival at the gate, Johnny cast an eye over some of the information posted therein.  
  
"Are you sure this is the one you want?" He asked, seeming strangely apprehensive.  
  
"Yes, it's beautiful. Why?" Calista asked, sunny curls concealed under a large straw hat, sandals on her feet again. She was poking at her phone, trying to coax an approximate translation out of a Japanese-language app.  
  
"Mingling between men and women is not allowed here except for married couples. If you want to see me while we're here, you'll have to channel your inner thespian."  
  
"Have to what?" She squinted at him.  
  
"Act." Johnny clarified.  
  
"Oh." She appeared to ponder the concept, then shrugged. "Okay." Shouldering her knapsack, she looped her arm through his as the concierge arrived. Johnny swallowed.  
  
Dubious hotel rules aside, they were looking forward to their stay in this region. There is nowhere quite like Gion in the spring, and heroes in the East were treated differently than those of celebrity status in the West. The culture was different, more reserved. Heroes and idols were granted a certain degree of privacy and even deference that was unheard of in the states. Though a few Japanese recognized Royalle or even Calista, any greetings they received in passing were quick and polite, without the sense of entitlement to overstep boundaries so common in American fans. It was unnerving, the level of relief a little privacy could buy.  
  
They were relieved of their sparse luggage in a center courtyard, and left standing together beneath a cherry tree. The sunny, drowsy heat of late afternoon permeated the establishment with a soft, delicate hush. Calista pulled her hat off, shook out her curls, beamed up at him. Her smile came so readily these days, for him at least. Royalle pretended it didn't make his chest ache.  
  
"I'm going to go freshen up," she said, pocketing the room key that a quiet clerk had pressed into her hand. She looked longingly towards the sequestered spa.  
  
"Go," Royalle said quietly.  
  
"Hmm?" Her daydream broken, she looked up at him.  
  
"It's been a long week." He inclined his head towards the spa with the trademark raised brow. "Take all the time you need."  
  
Calista dimpled, nose crinkling with mirth. "How did you know?" She reached out, ran her fingertips lightly down his arm, met his eyes warmly. "I'll meet you here for dinner, okay?"  
  
He nodded, offered a rare smile, not trusting himself to speak. At times her casual, affectionate familiarity was more than he could bear. People were not, as a rule, overly affectionate with Royalle. Part and parcel with the redeemed-villain bit, so it seemed.  
  
He watched her disappear through the sliding door to the spa area, the brightest spot in an already sunny vista; the highlight of a golden afternoon.  
  
 _You're going soft, old man_. He grimaced, and went in search of an isolated spot to light a cigarette.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
"What do you think?" Calista turned for his benefit, revolving slowly under the tree where they had parted ways several hours before. Royalle glanced up, a gentle breeze at sundown sending the fragile petals raining down around her. He caught one as it fell, watching her.  
  
The indulgence of rest had done her good. A silver kimono that left her collarbone and shoulders bare flowed down in elegant lines to her sandaled feet. it was the color of moonlight, pale and shimmering subtly against her golden skin. Her hair spilled loose, a flaxen halo around her beaming visage.  
  
She was… different; in her element. Her grace, confidence, openness with him was sharply in contrast from the girl-child he had known and protected in Los Angeles. It was bizarre, disquieting; being in love rather than merely loving. And it was painful, as agonizingly uncertain as the very first time he'd chosen her over all other considerations. Perhaps coming here had been a mistake. There is something about youth and beauty in the springtime that drives dark men to madness.  
  
He rubbed a petal between his fingertips, the satin delicacy of it a tactile lure. "Beautiful." He murmured, a low rasp; staring at her with eyes that caressed her face. Then he turned and walked away, still holding the blossom; and Calista rested a hand over her heart, feeling unsteady. Johnny glanced back over his shoulder, a rakish smirk lightening the moment. "Coming?"  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The kimono had been a gift, apparently, from an employee of the hotel who recognized Calista from a semester spent studying abroad. "I wouldn't have had the guts to wear it otherwise," she said, smoothing a hand over the embroidered silk. "I don't know how they can pull this off every day." She gestured to the maiko currently entertaining other patrons of the tea room.  
  
Geisha were Kyoto's primary attraction, a fact which the tourism industry had ruthlessly pursued and attempted to exploit in recent years. The floating world refused to be quantified or cheapened for marketing, however, and much of Gion retained its authenticity. The unique artistry of geisha was something that people traversed the globe to see, but Johnny had eyes only for Calista.  
  
A host, assuming they were celebrating rather than dining together as they always did, brought a bottle of sake and two cups to the table. Johnny raised a hand, intending to decline, but Calista reached out and intercepted the wave, lacing her fingers with his. His pulse thrummed.  
  
"Let's have it." She said, lips curving into her odd little smile that was both self-effacing and optimistic.  
  
He raised a brow, nodding at the host for her to pour. "As you wish."  
  
Had they been asked to recount the meal, Royalle did not think he could have managed it. A man of singular tastes and no great appetite, he often did not take especial note of cuisine. On this particular evening he could not recall eating anything at all.  
  
Calista seemed disconcerted by his reserved detachment, reading it as something other than what it was. "I was thinking of patrolling tonight." At his questioning look, she explained, "I feel like I should, since they've been so nice." Her hand caressed the fabric of the kimono again. "And tourist season can get messy."  
  
He nodded. "Of course. I'll absent myself, then. Wouldn't want to tarnish my sterling reputation."  
  
She pinched his sleeve between thumb and fingertips, not quite touching him. He looked down at her hand, then met her eyes. "You don't have to. You could come with. Or I could walk back with you."  
  
Royalle raised a single amused brow.  
  
Calista thought for a moment, then laughed. "Right. I guess you don't need me to walk you anywhere."  
  
"I'll manage." He smirked. She smiled, releasing his sleeve, and turned to go. "Calista." He stared, pupils dilating as he memorized every line of her. "Be careful."  
  
With a whistling pop, he was gone, leaving Calista to stare at the space he had previously occupied and wonder where all the air in her lungs had gone.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
It was typical for Royalle to check Calista's accommodations before retiring, ensuring that they were up to par. But she was patrolling and he was jetlagged, the exhaustion of teleportation into a new time zone exacerbated by the effects of warm sake on a nearly empty stomach. He had a cigarette, glaring at the cherry tree in the courtyard as if it had personally offended him, then withdrew to his room.  
  
Calista found downtown Kyoto colorful, full of life and action, but not particularly crime-ridden. She had suspicions that had more to do with the discretion of the _Aizukotetsu-kai_ , local yakuza, than any particular immunity on the city's part.  
  
She wished Royalle had joined her. Despite her watchful eyes peering into the darkness in alleys and around streetcorners, she needed no protection - she just missed his company. They were together more often than they were apart, as of late. She sighed, turning, and began to walk home.  
  
Most of the lights in the hotel were dark when she returned, close to midnight. Peering at the carved-bamboo key fob in her hand as she approached the reception desk; she frowned and asked the sleepy clerk, in halting Japanese, to show her to her room. The other girl nodded, rose, and beckoned for Calista to follow.  
  
When the door to the suite shut quietly behind her, Calista realized she was not alone. Reaching out with her senses, she slipped off her sandals and padded barefoot across the tatami to the doorway of the bedroom.  
  
Johnny was asleep inside, long form stretched nearly straight on the bed, one thin hand flat on the mattress, the other folded beneath his head. Features relaxed in sleep, he looked almost boyish, and she clamped a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. He stirred slightly but did not wake. She smiled broadly, tiptoeing back into the sitting room to contemplate the situation.  
  
The hotel staff had assumed they were a couple, of course - their luggage rested side by side in front of the room's only armoire, waiting to be unpacked. Calista raised her hand to her face again, in the universal gesture of one who cannot fathom how to get out of an awkward situation. She could go elsewhere, of course; few doors were closed to her. But it was late, and she was swaying with tiredness and the lingering drowsy warmth of sake. Shrugging, she padded back into the bedroom and - carefully - curled up beside Royalle.  
  
The kimono rustled softly - she had been unable to untie the obi and would have to seek assistance from a maid in the morning - but Johnny only shifted slightly, deeply asleep for the first time in recent memory. She glanced at him over her shoulder, the ghost of a smile playing about her lips, before resting her head on the pillow and drawing the blanket up. His scent was familiar, tobacco and what she imagined was cologne, and she drifted off.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Royalle was warm. Unusually, uncomfortably warm. Something soft, smelling of citrus and flowers, brushed his nose and cheekbone. He opened his eyes. A cloud of blonde hair, slightly tousled, teased his face. _Calista?_  
  
 _Oh god_. All this time, an exercise in the most rigorous forms of self-restraint. Avoiding looking at her, being tempted by her; only to wake with her in his bed, in his arms. Dappled sunlight filtered through the patterned windows, reeds on rice paper highlighting her long lashes; her hair, which was getting longer, shimmering on one bare shoulder. She still wore the kimono from last night, and looked placid and content, sleeping close beside him. She had curled into his side in the night, and he had in sleeping instinct wrapped an arm around her, yet she slumbered on. She trusted him even in her vulnerability. She craved closeness. With _him._ The implications made his heart race.  
  
He had slept in his suit, wishing to be prepared if she summoned him during the night. Now it was not only a superfluous gesture, but supremely uncomfortable and becoming more so. Gently, so carefully he may as well have been performing surgery, he lifted his arm from around her waist and teleported out.  
  
He appeared in the Empty Room, the first place he could think of; threatened instinct reaching out for stillness and sanctuary. He gasped, pawing blindly for a cigarette, hands trembling with the force of it. God, he wanted her _so_ badly. He had never wanted anything as badly as the girl sleeping in the proverbial next room. _The key was in my hand, she was mine, she was mine._

But Royalle was accustomed to living without indulgence. He placed a cigarette between his lips, lighter flare in the dimly lit room illuminating dilated pupils and a drawn expression. He was very still, control reasserting itself in thin layers like lacquer on a mask. Smoke curled into the silence, coloring hopelessness in shades of grey.


	26. Homecoming

Things were stilted, after Kyoto. Royalle's absence had not gone unnoticed, and when pressed for an explanation he remained uncharacteristically reticent with his companion. Calista was miffed, his taciturnity chafing at her insecurities, and they muddled through the days in heavy silence, often apart. She could not bring herself to ask him why he had gone, and the thought of speaking truth on the matter left Johnny mute, mouth dry. It was an uncomfortable affair; being at odds was so against the grain that neither could grow accustomed to it. The cherry blossoms started to fall as late spring rains rolled in.

Meanwhile in Los Angeles, life shuttled on as usual. People lived, loved, battled, died; the city of angels watching impassively as its sun-worshipping children threw themselves at one another, loving and fighting and shattering upon the rocks like so many wayward ships. Modern and glittering the stage might have been, but the dance was ages old.  
  
When the storm came, it happened so swiftly it was dizzying. Royalle should have seen it coming; would have, had Calista not occupied the entirety of his vision. Even as he tried not to look at her, he could see nothing else. Calista was a hero, despite her humble beginnings. She belonged to the world, despite how much she tried to reject that reality - and the world wanted her back.

They were at breakfast early one morning, both surly from lack of sleep. They had occupied a small tenement, chosen to replace the single hotel room - a tacitly dismissed decision that had required no discussion; which was fortunate, because Calista would barely speak to him. She poured tea - an unusual choice, unsuited to her sweet tooth - gazing solemnly into the cup. Royalle pressed one pale hand to his chest absently, wondering what the ache there was, before withdrawing his second cigarette of the day. Lighter halfway to the waiting coffin nail, his cell phone rang. He frowned, lit it anyway, and answered the phone; its mild electronic tune an unwelcome disturbance when the sun was this near the dawn horizon.

The conversation took only a few minutes, but Royalle heard his blood in his ears as if he had run a sprint. He hung up the phone, looked directly at Calista for the first time that day. "That was Claire. There's something you should see."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

With Retro Girl's ignominious death, some truths about her private affairs had come to light. Her flaws. Her imperfections. Though Calista had refused to make herself available for public consumption in the way Janis had, the glamorous mystery of the living was preferable to the naked truths of the dead. More easily packaged and sold. The pedestal they placed Calista on had grown higher and higher, the public eye expecting (as it always did) a sacrifice of somewhat grander scale.

The story was always the same. A girl, some politician's daughter of moderate renown and minor ability, a low-level power with a spotlight. She had been a socialite, mostly, dabbling in just enough charity work to save herself from resembling the vapid club kid she had been at eighteen. If things had not gone as they did, the night Wolfe died, Calista might still have been amongst her contemporaries. The girl might have been safer for it - with things as they were, she was dead.

"Sarah Michaels." Calista read, then lowered her phone with a sigh, as if the article had been written solely to inconvenience her. Her eyes were round but carefully blank, the expression she painted onto her face when she wanted to appear inscrutable, emotionless. It was half learned defense, from the years spent under her father's roof; and half a reflex picked up from Royalle himself. It was odd to see his habits on her face. "Someone leaked to the press that we used to hang out together."  
  
"Did you?" He asked quietly, knowing the answer already by the look on her face - the expression of someone giving up, someone who has been running and finally loses their wind.  
  
"We went to the same clubs. We weren't friends." Impatient, she carded fingers through her hair, another gesture she had acquired from him. "She never knew me." Royalle blinked at her uncharacteristic coldness. For a moment, in her silhouette, he could see Janis' ghost. He realized she was afraid.  
  
"They want me to go back. For the funeral."  
  
He felt cold at the prospect, could sense the anxiety emanating from her like a high-frequency hum. "Calista-"  
  
"I have to go." Janis' memory, her public perfection and its consequences loom in technicolor, her presence larger than life even now. "They already resent me for not being **Her**. For… this..." She gestured at the air between them in wordless exasperation, then dropped her hands and sighed. "No one will trust me if I don't go. And I can't save someone who doesn't trust me."  
  
Her words cut too close to the bone, echoing like a slap. Royalle nearly flinched because though the accusation was not meant for him her eyes sliced through him as if it were. He shrugged, lit another cigarette, pretended he could not feel. "Back to LA, then."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Calista was incensed. She didn't want to be here, in this city of ghosts and masquerades. She was angry, and bitter, and afraid. She felt confined, every sinew in her body quivering to be free. Though she could leave on her own agency, the will of others tethered her. She lashed out blindly against the sensation; a flare of futile fire, an empty lighter sparking against the consuming greedy night.  
  
The funeral had been an exercise in deceit, a crowd of public faces queuing up to say pseudo-private things at the grave of a girl they'd barely known. She had wanted to leave immediately afterward, freshly dug clay and earth still clinging to her black heels - the young have no time to waste on death. But decorum demanded she stay for the mayor's speech, denigrating the evils of the supremacist terror group she had unknowingly helped to create.  
  
**Chaotic Chic**. Who could have guessed what a monster they wrought, children playing at war games.  
  
Her skin crawled with the awareness of mortality, of consequence. She felt caged in the penthouse they occupied, and she flung open the terrace doors, desperate for the night air. This was the first time in over a year that maturity had weighed so heavily on her shoulders, and she resented the burden. Her rift with Royalle did more than exacerbate the situation - viewed objectively, it had created it. Her anger and confusion was caught in a negative feedback loop, growing more hectic and convoluted the longer they stayed in LA.  
  
They seemed to always just miss one another, these days. Calista looked at her phone, biting her lip in a frown, before the clarity of decision passed over her features. She turned on her heel and exited the room as Royalle entered from the opposite door, cigarette in hand. He lit it and watched her disappear into her bedroom, a nonplused expression on features lined in concern. She was frenetic, hostile; not herself. This city had never been good for her. He thought that he should speak to her, bridge the gap that had grown so threateningly wide in such a short amount of time. He poured a drink instead.  
  
Calista emerged, in time, a warrior dressed for battle. The demure black dress she had worn to the funeral lay discarded on the floor somewhere in her room, exchanged for the plunging silk ensemble she donned. Black, unrelentingly black, a deep matte jet that gathered below her sternum and above her hip; toned and supple flesh under golden skin. He stared. He could not help but stare, and she smirked at him; as if he were the youth and she, the master of reserve. Her lashes were lined with kohl, eyes smoky and upturned like a cat's, mouth red. He had never seen her wear lipstick. He scrambled for purchase, throwing up a haphazard bluff, reaching for his cigarettes. But she was holding all the cards, and he did not know what game they were playing.  
  
"Going somewhere?" He rasped, as she placed a few necessities in a clutch bag. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, cigarette in one hand; his pack in his breast pocket and the scotch on a shelf beside him in case of emergencies. The situation seemed to be shaping up into a fine emergency.  
  
"Out."  
  
"Calista…"  
  
She sashayed about in the gown, the pinprick focus of his attention feeding her anger and her recklessness. It was apparent that constructive discussion was out of the question, and yet he could not help but feel they were teetering on the brink of some great revelation or some great catastrophe. She approached him with slow, deliberate steps, watching the play of emotions across his features with no small amount of visible satisfaction. The leg bared by the slit in the dress pressed against his as she withdrew a cigarette from his pack, her eyes never leaving his. It was a costume, an act, out of place on the girl he knew - but she was not herself. The moon was full, and she intended to rattle the cage.  
  
Royalle caught his breath in a hitching inhale. "Calista, don't." He warned, tone hoarse and strained.  
  
She smirked, a fingertip flipping his lapel as she stepped back. "Why not?"  
  
"Do you think I'm made of stone?"  
  
She smiled, tossed her head with a light laugh as she paced away. Johnny is safe. Johnny is trustworthy. Her demeanor made it plain that she doubted he was serious. A few inches closer, and he would show her the definition of serious.  
  
"Where are you going?" He asked again, as she lit the cigarette in profile. In the uncertain light, the red of her lipstick on the filter appeared nearly black; blood from the heart.  
  
"To see Krispin. We're having drinks. Just catching up." She replied casually, putting on earrings, something of her old self in her tone along with this new bite.  
  
_Catching up_. Perhaps that was all that was on Calista's agenda. Being somewhat better acquainted with the minds of young men, Royalle thought otherwise. But he refused, stubbornly, to stand in her way. He watched her go, heels clicking on hardwood, seething with resentment and the sickly feeling of heartache and bitterness and damage. When the door latched behind her, he lit another cigarette, and reached for the bottle of scotch.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The clock didn't tick. Royalle thought it was somewhat lacking in poetry; drunk to the gills, shirt half unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up, brooding in a cloud of cigarette smoke as he awaited Calista's return. We need to talk. But the damn clock didn't tick. It was digital, passive blue glare lighting up the counter. No audible passage of time, waiting in silence and mounting discontent.  
  
At 2:39 am, the front door opened. He could tell two things by her gait - one, she was angry. Two, she was drunk.  
  
But not as drunk as he was.  
  
He rose as she entered, exiting through the terrace doors without a word. He knew she would follow him. Curiosity was in her nature. She set down her purse, waving the cloud of smoke aside, heels tapping out a slightly uneven rhythm as she joined him on the terrace.  
  
Royalle stood at the railing, looking at the urban sprawl that surrounded them, twinkling hazy lights in the unhealthy orange-grey glow of predawn in LA. Calista joined him, took the cigarette from his hand, inhaled a deep and punishing drag.  
  
"I gave him a black eye."  
  
Royalle raised a brow at her; questioning, rejoicing.  
  
"He put his hands on me. Expected me to go home with him." Her face twisted in revulsion at the idea, and something in him responded with a deep and primal satisfaction. Still, he said nothing. Whiskey throbbed through him, warm and deceptive. He did not trust himself, in that moment. One hand curled into a fist around his lighter.  
  
"The papers have me screwing everybody from Static Shock to Justin fucking Bieber." Royalle could not contain his derisive snort. She continued, bravely refusing to allow the tremble in her lower lip. "The tabloids say I'm a whore. The news shows say I'm coldhearted. He says I'm a freak. Untouchable. That he was doing me a favor." She sniffled a little, and he looked at her, a man before the altar. She did not see.  
  
"Christ, Calista; if you only knew." The words were rough, almost a reprimand.  
  
She tilted her head at him, eyes large and luminous in the moonlight and distant dusky glow of the city skyline, stolen cigarette balanced between her fingertips. The paper of the cigarette was shiny where her lips had held it. He was drunk and he wondered what it would be like to inhale the smoke from her lungs. Would it taste like innocence? Loneliness? Tobacco and honey? Wanting? He scoffed out loud; sneered at his curiosity, shoved it back down to the oubliette where hope and redemption lived.  
  
"What?" She stared, wondering at the scoff. He did not explain himself, so she took another drag, gaze steady and bold, too tired to attempt conversation.  
  
He was drunk, staring at the shine of her lipgloss on the cigarette, imagining smoke and dissolution. And he could not stop it. Because he was drunk and she was staring at him, insistence in those large pale eyes, and all at once he could not ( _not-not-not_ ) help himself anymore. When she exhaled, he lowered his lips to hers, breathed in that tainted essence. It wasn't a kiss, not really - it was an exchanging of vapors, life support. She didn't move, and when he pulled back from her, she raised trembling fingertips to her lips.  
  
Royalle gasped, sobering abruptly, the spike of adrenaline punching through in a dizzying panic. He took a step back. "Shit." His eyes were wide, watching, so it seemed, the destruction of everything he'd built between them. "I'm sorry." And he was gone.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Royalle could have, should have, left the city then. Anywhere in the world; to think, to breathe. The Empty Room. Anywhere. Instead, he headed to the city's outskirts, a quiet residential area for middle-class professionals and their families. For young divorcees and white picket fences, and orphaned schoolboys grown up all alone.  
  
He had been drunk with her, on her; her presence making the alcohol superfluous, his blood singing. Now he was coldly sober, a creeping satisfaction crawling up his spine and tapping on his shoulder like an old friend who comes by and invites you to smash car windows and brawl in the streets.  
  
The boy still lived in the house he had shared with his parents, his adolescent grief making a monument of empty rooms and forgotten things. Royalle could have felt sorry for him, almost - if he were anyone else. If he had dared to touch anyone else. Any other girl.  
  
Upon finding the house, a small and simple task, he teleported directly into Krispin's room. The boy, a young man now, scrambled upright in bed, vulnerable in boxer shorts and an old t-shirt.  
  
Royalle studied him for a long moment, then deliberately turned his back, surveying the room and its contents. Indicating by disinterest his total lack of concern for whatever threat Krispin represented. "I'm aware of your sentiments regarding powers." He drawled, tone abrasive with derision and drink. "Allow me to give you a gift, the validation of knowing all your fears are well-founded." A heartbeat, and he stood at the foot of the younger man's bed, hauling him up by his throat. "Calista's wellbeing is my primary concern. If you ever again do anything to jeopardize that, I will put you in your fucking grave. _Stay away from her_."  
  
Royalle threw the thrashing youth down as if he were unclean, and took a step back, pulse thundering. "Glad we had this little chat." He snarled, and vanished.


	27. Anywhere

She couldn't find him. For virtually the first time in their tumultuous shared history, Calista could not find Royalle; and the knowledge of it was lodged under her skin like a splinter, festering. He had left her trembling on the terrace, suddenly chilled though the night remained mild as ever. He had gone, without explaining himself, without waiting for her to speak. She burned with indignation and outrage at the neglect.  
  
And perhaps, also concern.  
  
Through coincidence or design, her repeated calls to his phone yielded no results. Electronic devices, even shielded ones like the cell phone, did not survive long in Royalle's service. Teleportation was hard on the circuits, and whenever possible he preferred to conduct his business in brief and in person. This radio silence seemed contrived, however - the stretching void of unanswered voicemails more related to Royalle's shortcomings than those of technology. He'd probably dropped the damn thing off a mountain somewhere.  
  
Calista pressed her lips together, vexed; eyes narrowing in annoyance as she turned her attention to her luncheon companions. She could not call to mind any other circumstance under which she would consent to meeting Walker and his abrasive but undeniably effective partner. But, desperate times. She found herself sitting beneath a striped awning, sipping espresso with the air of one who would rather be elsewhere. The coffee was black, bitter. It suited her mood.  
  
She was unsure what she'd hoped to gain from this meeting. Insight into Royalle's location, had been the justification she provided herself when making the arrangements. But Walker was unlikely to know more about Johnny's current whereabouts than she did. She frowned into her small, porcelain cup. "Johnny's missing. He was drunk. I was drunk. I don't know where he is."  
  
"Oh, god, you didn't-" Deena blurted, with the expression of one who cannot imagine an outcome more unpleasant.  
  
Calista favored her with an icy stare, clearly communicating her distaste for the detective's judgmental prying.  
  
"You were drunk?" Walker asked. "Aren't you underage?" When the stare turned on him, he waved a hand dismissively. "Never mind. Look. I don't give a fuck about Royalle. He's a bastard, and he's dangerous, and I think we both know I'd arrest him for murder if I could pin him down." Walker took a deep breath, and Deena kicked him under the table, as if to say that was quite enough. Walker looked at her, narrowing his eyes in that silent telepathy partners have; but continued. "That said… In the shaft, I put my gun to his head, and all he cared about was you. He told me to take care of you. He faced Wolfe for you. Twice, actually." Walker took a long swallow of his coffee, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else. "I hate him, though. And if you see him, tell him we need to talk."  
  
Calista bit her lip, for a long moment distrusting her voice. "You and the rest of the world." She looked down, lest anyone else see her eyes, solemn and tearful, and rummaged about in her pocket for a small bill. "Thank you, detectives. I have to go."  
  
Watching her go, Walker scowled, and muttered into his cup, "We're even, you fucker. Wherever you are."  
  
Deena kicked him again.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Calista hailed a cab, climbing in and mumbling her destination, thoughts pensive. Who else to ask? Triphammer? He was still withdrawn, asocial; coping with the heavy burden of mourning Retro Girl's death as the public hailed the unwitting successor rising in her stead. Turning to him for help would be throwing salt on the wound, and probably just as pointlessly painful for herself.  
  
The idea hit her like a dash of cold water while she was headed uptown, and she berated herself for an imbecile while scrambling to pull out her phone.  
  
The woman's number was on speed dial, for fuck's sake, and yet she had not thought to call her until now. Claire.  
  
The line rang twice with measured precision, and Calista got the distinct if somewhat irrational impression that the secretary always allowed for two rings before picking up. The perfect window of time to suggest a sense of occupied efficiency. "Crown Management Group," a politely brisk, feminine voice answered.  
  
"Claire!" Calista yelped the name, then took a breath, swallowing her excitement and impatience. "Claire. It's Calista. I need to know where Johnny is."  
  
There was a slight hesitation, covered smoothly in the other woman's practiced reply. "Mr. Royalle has requested that I hold all his calls until directed otherwise. He has not informed me of his present location."  
  
"I need to see him."  
  
"I can inform Mr. Royalle of your request."  
  
"No, I-" Calista gritted her teeth in frustration. "I have been informing Mr. Royalle for the past week and he won't return my calls."  
  
Another hesitation, as Claire assembled the appropriate response. "I apologize, Ms. Secor. I'll be sure to let him know it's urgent."  
  
Calista's temper, never sturdy at the best of times, snapped like an overwrought tightrope. She felt herself falling into anger like a long drop into a hot bath, and welcomed the flare of aggression that fueled her courage. "No, Claire, I need to see him. Now. Right now. You don't have to tell me where he is but I know where you are and so help me if I have to come down there-"  
  
Claire's smooth voice cut her off. "One moment, m'am." The line went on hold.  
  
Claire gaped at her phone, the secretary's seamless, unruffled professionalism leaving her speechless. A hundred-dollar bill in her hand, she lunged forward and thrust it at the cabbie. "Pull over, I'm getting out."  
  
Retro Girl made the papers that evening, stepping out of a cab and immediately into flight, in full view of rush-hour traffic and pedestrian crowds.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Most people would never guess it, but Royalle had an office in Paris, in an unassuming tower on the outskirts of the financial district. The sign on the door said, "Crown Management" in silver lettering, a three-pointed crown its sigil. The office was quiet, and primarily Claire's domain - he visited very seldom, preferring to leave the more mundane elements of managing his assets to more interested parties. An accountant worked part time Mondays through Wednesdays; but the rest of the time Claire was left to her own devices. Her desk sat in organized solitude in the reception area, solidly between the front door and the interior, guarding Royalle's office which typically sat empty.  
  
"Ms. Secor? Ma'm?" Finding the line dead, Claire hung up the phone and rose from her desk, walking with some trepidation to the closed double doors. She knocked lightly first; then, receiving no response, rapped with her knuckles against the blond wood. "Mr. Royalle; Ms. Secor just called. She asked that I let you know." There was little more she could do without being invited in, so she turned and resumed her post, tapping away at the keyboard with a small frown on her generally calm features.  
  
Behind the doors, Royalle sat at his large and suspiciously empty desk, ubiquitous cigarette between his lips. He toyed absently with his lighter, thinking. Intellectually, he knew that refusing to entertain Calista's attempts at communication would drive her to irrationality, or perhaps even drive her away. The thought of her trying, and failing, to get in touch with him made him ache. But he imagined the look in her eyes, the one he had not lingered to see after kissing her… He did not want to see that imagined look brought into reality on her living face.  
  
 _Disdain. Outrage. Pity._ He put the cigarette out, sighed harshly, and dipped his head to rest in both his hands. _How the fuck did you think this would turn out?_  
  
Weighed down and deafened with the smothering burden of his own mistakes; he did not notice, at first, that the lobby beyond was rather… louder… than usual. The front doors, usually a mild whisper and click of a latch, were thrown open. The sound brought him to his feet.  
  
"M'am, can I help you?" Claire's voice sounded strained, anxious, very unlike her. Royalle rested both fists on the desk, leaning forward as all the air rushed out of him in a silent laugh that straddled the line between the relief of satisfied expectation and recognition of the absurd.  
  
"Is he in there?" Calista demanded, advancing on the secretary. Claire paused, her hand on the phone, eyes flickering nervously to the office doors.  
  
"M'am, how did you get in here? Security-"  
  
"I broke down the door on the helipad. Is he in there?" Calista was flushed, hair wild from flight, stance aggressive. As she took one more step towards the secretary's desk, Claire's hand went under it, an expression of resolve on the other woman's face. As if in answer to the question posed, the intercom buzzed.  
  
"Claire. Let her in."  
  
Claire sighed, and took her hand off the taser that was strapped to the underside of her desk. "Go on in, Ms. Secor." Pressing the intercom button, she replied, "Mr. Royalle, I'm taking the rest of the day off."  
  
The office doors whispered open, then shut quietly; the petite blonde figure facing them, her hands on the wood. She just stood there for a moment, the calm before the storm. "So. Here you are."  
  
"Hello to you too." Royalle greeted drily, stepping out from behind his desk. He maintained calm as best he could, the reflex to light another cigarette as natural as breathing.  
  
Calista spun, fists balled at her sides. "You said you'd never be mad at me," she complained, then bit her lip at how childish it sounded. Her eyes filled with tears she could not stop, anyway. Retro Girl, indeed.  
  
"The truly fucked up thing, Calista," he informed her, exhaling smoke, "Is that I'm not mad at you."  
  
Her face fell, large eyes disbelieving and confused. "But, I was so..." She squirmed, could not say what she had been. "And you left-"  
  
Johnny flickered, as if his will to stay battled with his instinct to go. He could not seem to look her in the eye; but finally answered. "I'm a coward, Calista."  
  
She wrung her hands, fidgeting. "I tried to go home, after… after." _After you kissed me._ "But I couldn't."  
  
He laughed, the sound bitter but not unkind. "I find it difficult to believe that there's nowhere in this wide world for Retro Girl to lay her head."  
  
"It's not that." She huffed impatiently. "It's… it wasn't home." She took a step closer, minding the sense of boundary radiating from him like an electric fence, but desperate to be understood. She forced herself to look him in the eye. "It's only home when I'm with you." She turned red, and her eyes welled with tears of discomfort at the vulnerability of the words. But she said them, and stood her ground.  
  
Johnny went pale, staring at her. Silence reigned in the room like snowfall. He spread his arms; almost defiant, cigarette in one hand, hope in the other. (Don't get close to him.) "Calista. Please. I can't do this. If this is a game…"  
  
She stepped forward again, breaching his personal space, eyes fixed on his. It was important that he look at her, important that he see her for what she was, not what she had been or what he expected her to be. He held her gaze as if mesmerized.  
  
"Johnny?" She reached, tentatively, for his face; traced the lines and planes. As if in a dream, her other hand rose, fingertips smoothing over his lapel, gripping the fabric lightly, pulling him down.  
  
He let her, god help him. He knew she could see it in his eyes, had been seeing it for some time. The darkness. The secret he had been keeping, clinging to it with dogged determination.  
  
"How long have you loved me?" She breathed against his lips. Cold lanced through him, and he felt again the sense of loss and longing, the feel of a playing card tearing in two between his fingertips.  
  
"Calista, don't," He thought to struggle against the hold she had on him, but it was more the helpless flutter of a bird in a snare; a gasp that shuddered through him with the ineffectiveness of dead leaves on the wind. "I can't…"  
  
"How long?" She repeated, staring into wide eyes with patient insistence. Her lips were close enough that he could taste the sweetness of them with each soft exhalation, and he trembled. Her fingertips wound tighter into the fabric of his jacket, binding him irrevocably. He could not teleport now, without taking her with him.  
  
"God," he murmured, voice strained as if she dragged the very breath from him. "Always."  
  
She stood on tiptoe, teetering a little to match his height, and pressed her lips to his. Her kiss was chaste, soft - so gentle he could have imagined he'd dreamed it, were it not for her warm weight wobbling against him. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand buried in her hair - at last - steadying her and drawing her closer.  
  
Johnny broke the kiss, drawing back with a soft gasp. He knew she could feel him shaking - this close, there was nothing he could do to hide it. He could feel his heart knocking at the back of his teeth, but for once resisted the urge to flee. He looked at her;cautious, uncertain still.  
  
Calista was glowing; her eyes tender and affectionate, lips parted and slightly plump. Catching the direction of his gaze, she smiled; a playful, earnest thing.  
  
"Where do you want to go?" He whispered fiercely, which meant of course, _I love you_.  
  
"Anywhere," she answered, gripping fistfuls of his jacket as he held her close. "Anywhere."


	28. Dark Heart

"Calista." Johnny's voice was a hoarse whisper, right beside her ear. She came awake slowly, feeling his touch on her shoulder, then all at once. There was an urgency in his tone that sent adrenaline threading through her bloodstream, sharpening her vision and her hearing. Her bedroom, tucked into a stylish loft, was dark, but now that she was awake she could hear the sound of people moving in the rooms below. There were intruders in the suite.  
  
"Burglary?" She breathed against his ear, pulling the blankets back and sitting up. She shivered, thin cotton pajamas no match for the chill of evening and skin-prickling alertness creeping over her. Royalle was already - or still - dressed, a suit and tie blending into dark shadows as he bent over her bed.  
  
He shook his head, eyes gleaming in the sliver of moonlight from the window. His lips were pressed in a tight line. "I'll handle it."  
  
She rolled to her feet, the fluid movement of someone who is ready for a fight. He read the intent in the lines of her body, the set of her mouth, and put a hand on her shoulder. "Calista, no."  
  
"Johnny, yes." She hissed back, defiant. "If you're going down there, I've got your back."  
  
"It's dangerous."  
  
"Which one of us is the superhero, again?"  
  
His jaw clenched, but he appeared to concede, turning his back and disappearing with a pop. A series of pops echoed downstairs - Royalle disarming the intruders - as Calista leapt lightly down, landing silently on the balls of her feet.  
  
"It's hardly any fun when you take their guns first." She complained mildly, throwing her elbow into the face of a man in a ski mask, as he struggled to his feet behind her. The unlucky fellow staggered into a glass table, breaking through with a crystalline crash. He appeared to be unconscious.  
  
Royalle was crouched over a tall form that lay prone, visible behind the sofa only from the shoulders down. It was a strong possibility that whoever the black recon boots belonged to was dead. Calista found that likelihood didn't trouble her as much as it probably ought.  
  
"Calista," he murmured softly, though both intruders appeared to be thoroughly dispatched. "Look." He held out a small white rectangle. It looked like a business card. On one side, their address was scrawled in hasty letters. On the other, **Chaotic Chic** was emblazoned in stylized red.  
  
"What the fuck?" Calista swore, still in a breathless whisper. Johnny raised an eyebrow, bemused at the outburst - then saw the man still caught in the steel frame of the table behind her raise the silenced pistol he had not noticed.  
  
 _Pop. Pop. Pop.  
_  
In broken seconds, the scene played out with ruthless efficiency. Royalle appeared behind Calista, not bothering with the gun but seizing the intruder's head with both hands and teleporting away again. In the blink of an eye he was back to square one, holding a misshapen but easily identifiable lump and breathing hard. The severed head dripped blood from the black wool of the ski mask. Huffing out a breath that was equal parts rage and relief, he dropped it. It thudded to the floor with a sickening splatter.  
  
Calista gaped, whipped around, saw the pistol still clutched in the limp hand of the decapitated corpse behind her. When she turned back to Royalle, he had withdrawn a handkerchief, and was cleaning his hands carefully. When his right was spotless again, he extended it to Calista. "We have to go, it's not safe here. Claire will send someone to clean up."  
  
With another pop they were gone, another suite in another country, kept ready for their arrival. Royalle had many bolt-holes, and most all of them were comfortably appointed. "Let me change." He muttered, turning away from her. The strain of rapid and repeated teleportation was starting to show on his face, and he desperately wanted a cigarette.  
  
"Johnny, wait." Calista approached carefully, with the same quiet respect she had shown on the night he'd executed her father. Tiny speckles of blood dotted his suit in a betraying constellation, the cuffs of his sleeves stained red. She reached out with a tentative hand, brushing the ruined fabric with something like reverence. "You saved my life." Then, with a self-deprecating smile and a half-shrug, "Again." Her fingertips continued to wander over the ply of his suit, counting the crimson minutiae, evidence of his savagery.  
  
"Does it bother you?" He murmured softly, clearly referring to the act of murder and not its happy consequence.  
  
"No. You would never hurt me."  
  
Calista smiled up at him, a fragile, secretive thing; and he lightly touched the pad of his thumb to her bottom lip, eyes dark.  
  
"No. I wouldn't." A pause, his voice rough. "But I have hurt many people."  
  
She ran light fingertips up over his tie, loosening the knot and pulling as she backed away. "I know."  
  
Leashed by the tie, he had no choice but to follow, advancing one cautious step for each one she took away. "Calista." Her name was breathless on his lips, an aural caress that burned like smoke in the lungs. The tie slipped away, slithering down to the floor from one languid hand as she dropped it. Johnny swallowed, heart lodged in his throat, acutely aware of its hammering. She raised her hands to his collar and flicked the first button open, then the second. On the third, her fingernails scraped lightly against his skin, and he shuddered. On the fourth, he caught her wrist, stared down at her, eyes smoldering. "What is this?"  
  
"You said you wanted to change." She replied casually, as if undressing Royalle was commonplace and not a direct assault on his overwrought senses. Her free hand did away with the fifth button, tugging at his shirt to untuck it.  
  
He released her hand, backed away a single step. His breathing was labored even to his own ears. "There's blood on me."  
  
Calista advanced again, the hand he had released apparently still bent on mischief as she traced curious fingertips over the minimalist silver of his belt buckle. "I know."  
  
"Fuck," he breathed out softly. "How do you do this to me?"  
  
"Do what?" Her eyes were large, blue and blameless; the smile on her lips anything but unknowing.  
  
"I… have to go. Need to talk to someone. About the bodies." _Pop._  
  
Calista sighed, dropped her hand; blood thrumming with frustrated intensity. "For fuck's sake, Johnny," she muttered, exasperated but fond; the curse deliciously satisfying on her tongue.


	29. Lolita Noir

An admission of sentiment is one thing, action something altogether different. Experienced and educated on a great number of topics, Royalle had only a little to draw upon when it came to dealing with women. He had of course had encounters, as a younger man - Powers had been coveted as lovers and status symbols for as long as they'd existed. But he was fond of his solitude, unfriendly towards the shallow and boring, and had not cultivated an image that inspired attraction.  
  
Perhaps most importantly, he had never been in love. Calista represented a duality that he struggled to come to terms with; an adult nonchalance overlaying waifish innocence. She charmed him, challenged him; burned too bright to bear though he could not look away. Yet there was a darkness in her too, a certain haunted ruthlessness that showed through at telling moments. Her association with him seemed to have honed that side of her, deepened it… The idea troubled him. And at night, when alone on the balcony with a cigarette or out attending to business… it thrilled him, as well.  
  
Calista had been pressing him, intruding upon the boundaries he had erected with such care; going out of her way to gain the dark, appreciative stare he had heretofore leveled at her only when he thought she was not aware of it. She chipped away at his reserves of self-control, playing with fire. Royalle resisted - her youth and fearlessness, the selfsame things that made her so appealing, held him back. He wanted her with an intensity that was wholly new. At times, he worried that if he laid his hands on her skin, he would burst into flame.  
  
They were in Paris for the nonce; Royalle had business that made the penthouse above his office a suitable residence. Their days were filled with museums and Calista's burgeoning obsession with film noir. In the evenings, Royalle went out, managing his affairs in the privacy of shadowed anonymity. Calista lolled about the apartment, bored and vaguely annoyed at the lack of attention.  
  
"Johnny," she said quietly one afternoon, flipping through the pages of a French magazine, bare legs over the arm of the chair she lounged in. Her frock was summer embodied, yellow and white; fingers and toes painted ripe apple red. She had as of late adopted a mild, feminine style. He attributed it to the presence of Parisian fashion periodicals scattered about the house. It was a safer assumption, one that was more convenient and less distracting than the idea that she was deliberately attempting to garner his attention.  
  
"Hmm?" He glanced at her, cigarette halfway to his lips, deep in thought.  
  
"Don't work tonight. I want to go out." She lowered the magazine, watching him in an attempt to gauge his reaction. "The film that won at Cannes this year is playing in the theater around the corner. I want to see it."  
  
"You're welcome to go wherever you like," Royalle informed her mildly, surprised that she felt she needed an escort. Unless… _Oh_.  
  
"I want to go with you." She clarified, in a tone that intimated it should have been obvious.  
  
He pondered, smoking in silence for a moment. Things were at a critical stage just then, but a call to Claire would set matters right without his interference, at least for twenty-four hours. "Alright." He conceded. He felt bizarrely as if he had passed some hidden test.  
  
Calista beamed, victorious. At the secretive, exultant expression on her face, Johnny felt his heart skip a beat. He suddenly suspected that he had agreed to more than an outing.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Johnny was never late. Calista, however, made the lack of punctuality into an art form. He'd had to change his habits to accommodate her disorganized, laissez faire approach to life. It was a small concession. He waited for her beside the front door, cigarette in hand, the other tucked casually in his pocket. Staring out the window, he eyed the evening traffic, relishing the schadenfreude of being a teleport who did not own a car.  
  
"I think you'll like the film," she said breezily, rummaging about behind him for her jacket and other necessities. It was an hour or so before sunset, vibrant orange-tinged light stretching across the city with long fingers. "The director is an artist and a madman."  
  
 _Artist and a madman…_  
  
The summer frocks, bare legs, pouting lips. Of course.  
  
"Calista," he rasped, turning slowly, "Have you been reading Nabokov?"  
  
She laughed, shook out her curls, and slipped a pair of heart-framed sunglasses onto her face. He could see his ghostly image reflected in the dark lenses.  
  
"Very funny." He growled, pulling her close. The glasses hid her wide eyes from his gaze, but her lips - painted and glossy, a tempting candy color - parted softly in a gasp. It required a colossal effort to keep from devouring her then and there, artistic madmen be damned. "You have no idea what you do to me."  
  
Calista smirked, squirming a little under his hands, thin fabric of her dress shifting over the nubile curvature of her form. She watched his pupils expand, iris diminishing to a thin blue band. "I'm beginning to get one." Nibbling on her lip with a practiced insouciance that was meant to be obvious, she suggested lightly, "Maybe we could stay in tonight."  
  
He let her go, not without regret, and stepped back, extending his right hand to her with an ironic imitation of a courtly bow. "Come on, wicked girl. We have a film to see."  
  
Calista sulked, then smiled, taking his hand. Theaters were, after all, dark and full of possibilities.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Royalle sat very still in the darkened cinema, his focus more on the soft, feminine hand in his than on the film they had come to see. It was, that he could recall, the first time a woman had held his hand for more than a moment. A brusque, rakish lad, worldly and quiet; he had faced adolescence in a halting patchwork, a bare-bones imitation of the more traditional experience. Calista seemed to sense his unease, and flipped their hands over; her fingertips tracing the lines of his palm like a seeress reading his destiny. He swallowed, staring into the murky shadows of his peripheral vision as if he could divine her intent.  
  
She stroked his hand, tracing the veins of his wrist, brushing over the pad of his thumb where his lighter had made a callus. Her touch was feather-light, guileless - deliberately sensual. He worked to keep his breathing steady, to hold his pulse in check. Her fingertips crept languidly over his wrist, fluttering beneath the cuff of his sleeve, then wandered over the barrier between the theater seats. Johnny tensed, as she dragged one deliberate fingernail slowly up his thigh. Feeling him straighten beside her, inhaling sharply, she grinned - her teeth gleaming white in the flickering glow from the screen.  
  
"Calista," he muttered, a low threatening rasp, as she flattened her hand and smoothed it upwards over the cotton blend of his trousers.  
  
"What?" She breathed in his ear, hand lingering innocently.  
  
"You know what." He growled back.  
  
"Tell me." She demanded, lips hot on his skin; and seized the shell of his ear in her teeth. Her hand, still resting on his thigh, squeezed.  
  
Johnny gasped, expediently clenched jaw holding in a groan. "Fuck!" He raised a hand, long fingers curving around the back of her neck as he hissed in her ear. "Do that again and I'm taking you home."  
  
She pouted prettily, features nothing short of devilish in the dim light. "Promise?"  
  
Johnny rolled his eyes, doomed.


	30. Pull and Release

It was late, and he'd been drinking, a little. He knew better than to stray too close to her, when darkness and whiskey conspired to rob him of inhibition and common sense, but still with a soft whistle like the howl of the wind and a vacuous pop, he found himself outside her door. He'd thought to find her sleeping, to watch the rise and fall of her chest as she slumbered, wild blonde curls spread out on the pillow in a celestial halo, lit by moonlight. Instead, he found the covers rumpled and abandoned, a sure sign of a restless sleeper. He heard her indrawn breath not a moment too soon and stepped smoothly out of harm's way, her fist curving through air. It was dark, but they had been side by side for so long that they moved as dancers did; each body a natural extension of the other. He caught her wrist, and stepped out from the shadow of her bedroom door.  
  
"Oh, it's you." Calista mumbled groggily, holding a hand to her forehead as she swayed sleepily on her feet. "Sorry. I thought you were my father."  
  
Johnny shut his eyes as if pained. "That is something I could have gone my entire life without hearing."  
  
The silence between them was thick, cloying; sweet and dark as molasses. She turned toward him, thin cotton nightgown a mere whisper of fabric against her skin, the suggestion of modesty covering over the earthy velvet warmth of her. Her hair brushed against her collarbone, a tendril of gold stubbornly tickling her nose, and she blew it out of the way with an exasperated puff. She had the dreaming shimmer of a sleepwalker in her eyes, that precarious confidence that we place in darkness and solitude to excuse away the consequences of our actions.  
  
She dragged teasing fingers down the subtly patterned silk of his tie. "You wanna be my new daddy?" She purred playfully, pouting lips and big bright eyes watching his for any sign of a visceral reaction. Beneath her line of sight, his hands clenched.  
  
"Calista..." She always chose the moments when he was at his weakest to show that edge of wickedness running along her spine like blue steel, or the faultline that threatens a quake. It was this dark part of her, the twisted sense of whimsy and gutter-child black humor that seeped through at odd moments, the princess in peach and gold dragged through the mud, that terrified him; and made him so unbearably, unutterably hard. "Don't."  
  
She sighed, releasing his tie, and turned away, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, pressing the bare toes of her right to the instep of her left, crossing her ankles, then back again; a drowsy impatient dance. Her arms were languid, rising and falling in a dramatic shrug, white hands sketching drooping wings in the dimness. Loose-limbed, coltish and graceful. Abhorrently desirable. "It's always a no with you. Calista, no. Calista, don't. Calista, stop. Just once I wish you'd act like you want me." She laughed, a little; a mirthless sound - an animal, baring its teeth to hide an injury.  _I am not really taking this seriously. This is not painful._  
  
"You know I do." He muttered, voice strained as he glared at the floor, hands still balled into fists at his sides.  
  
"Could have fooled me."  
  
Johnny flickered and vanished into shadow. Calista's ears popped as if from a great height; she blinked and felt his fingers close over her upper arms. He dragged her upwards, bare toes _en pointe_ and brushing the plush rug as he shoved her weightless and pinned against the white-painted column of the four-poster. "What do you want from me?" He growled, swallowing a husky groan when she all but preened under the weight of his disapproval.  
  
She tossed her head, all youthful defiance; eyes pools of smirking triumph. "Come on, Johnny."  
  
He lowered her to the floor, staring at his hands as if they refused to let her go and he could not fathom such disobedience. He slid his grip to her wrists, the flutter of her pulse under his fingertips making it hard to think. One hand rose to her mouth, the lightly callused ball of his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip, prompting her silence. "Sometimes, I lie awake at night and can't get the color of your hair, or the scent of your perfume, or the texture of your skin out of my head." He stroked down the column of her throat, and she tilted her jaw upwards and sighed as he whispered against her ear. "I want you so badly, Calista, that I can hardly stand it." She shivered, biting her lip, eyes softly closed in anticipation. He brushed his lips against the feline sweep of her cheekbone as he released her and backed away.  
  
Calista gritted her teeth, dropping backwards onto her bed with a huff and a snarl. "Then what's the problem?"  
  
"You're not ready." _Pop.  
_  
On the rooftop terrace, Johnny lit a cigarette, the feel of her skin under his hands lingering and making him burn. Her youth, her fervor, made his heart race and his throat clench tight in uncertainty and profound awareness of the disparities between them. The ache for her that lived beneath his skin was rivaled only by the doubt that dwelled there as well.  _Or I'm not._


	31. Flashpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A balmy afternoon in Cuba sees things between our pair heat up.

While most of the world had seen Cuba only from a distance for the last fifty years or so, Johnny had been to Havana several times. The city, like the rest of the small, self-contained island nation, had a certain antiquated charm and sleepy pace that appealed. After the bustle and recognition of LA and Paris, the timeless seclusion was a welcome reprieve.  
  
Calista gravitated toward warmer climes in the summer, yearning for golden beaches and sunny vistas. Johnny humored her, though his own feelings toward hot weather vacillated between grimacing dislike and abject loathing. They compromised by choosing a hotel in the city, an old, ornately neoclassical affair; and Calista frequented the beach on her own.  
  
There were no crowds - though the stranglehold on tourism had recently relaxed, no one wanted to be this close to the coast in hurricane season, save a teleport who had no reason to concern himself with evacuation plans. Calista was prepared to join rescue squads should the need arise, but for the duration of their stay the weather had been mild. Brutally hot, humid, but still; without so much as a breeze ruffling the palm fronds. They filled their afternoons smoking local sativa and haunting the empty hotel, deeply appreciative of the hidden silence after the noise and frenetic energy of recent weeks.  
  
A sweltering afternoon found them walking quiet side streets, the sun baking down all around the narrow alley. They were a little drunk, Calista nudging Johnny playfully every few steps, sugarcane rum singing low and dusky through his veins. The street was dusty and worn, a few locals peering out from shaded porticos and lukewarm beers to offer a friendly wave. The alley opened, somewhat unexpectedly, into a small makeshift market in a cobbled square. Brightly colored silk awnings clashed merrily with closed shutters painted in shades of pastel. Tanned, wiry men and laconic women with brightly acquisitive eyes took note of the two Anglos stepping into the market and rearranged their wares into more appealing constellations.  
  
The offerings were mostly simple; small knickknacks, paintings, bottles of rum and beer glinting dully in the sunlight that streaked down through patched holes in the awning. A few beaded accessories - pouches for change, a flaring red skirt that Calista ran fond fingertips over for a moment before her attention was pulled away by something hiding in the dim recesses of the market stall.  
  
" _Puedo verso por favor?_ " She requested in halting but polite Spanish, reaching one hand toward the object of her desire. Nodding amicably, the older man operating the stall reached back and handed her a worn, red-painted acoustic guitar, designs etched into the wood.  
  
" _Cuánto?_ " Johnny asked, and handed over ten CUC though the man held up only five fingers. Calista was already wandering off, headed for a quiet corner of the square. Guitar cradled in her arms, she seated herself on a stack of crates so high her sandaled feet dangled off the ground. Johnny studied her, seeing her with a painter's gaze - the gentle rustle of her skirt, bare midriff folding soft as she bent affectionately over her prize. The way the straw hat she wore left a pattern of tiny sunlit dots across her cheek, miniature stars.  
  
She held the battered instrument up to him as he approached, expression plaintive but laughing. "Will you tune it for me?"  
  
He accepted the guitar, taking a seat beside her on a lower crate. He'd swapped his suits and leather pants for dark denims and a dark green cotton shirt, unbuttoned to his collarbone, sleeves rolled up. A tattoo peeked out of the folded cuff, faded black ink against the pale skin of his forearm, but not enough of it showed for Calista to discern the detail. It was one of several tattoos she had glimpsed, though the knew the story or significance of none of them. The mystery occasionally maddened her.  
  
Watching him from above, Calista fidgeted restlessly, her seaside limbs eager for motion; watching his long fingers turn, wait, turn again. Reverberating notes hummed in and out of tune as he cocked his head to listen. "I thought you couldn't play."  
  
"I can't." She replied, biting her lip distractingly as a sheepish flush colored her cheekbones. "Will you teach me?"  
  
He glanced at her, fingers still moving independently of his concentration. "If you like." Johnny studied her for a moment, then gestured at the guitar in his lap. "It's very old, missing a string."  
  
Her lower lip emerged, beestung pout the epitome of stubbornness. She swung the heels of her sandals against the worn wood beneath her. "That doesn't mean it's broken. I can fix it."  
  
Johnny raised a brow, nonplused at her surprising vehemence. "Alright."  
  
"Play for me." She prompted in a wheedling tone, and tilted her head coquettishly, a lighthearted smile curving her mouth.  
  
"It's missing a string," Johnny demurred, offering an apologetic shrug. She nudged him, her bare knee pressing against his shoulder. He did his level best not to notice, gaze flickering to her smooth thighs under dark glasses.  
  
"Come on. Please?"  
  
He uttered a short, long-suffering sigh, but shifted his grip on the guitar, fingers plucking out a brief arpeggio before settling into a rhythm. The missing string forced him to remain in the lower register, but the guitar had a warm, dark sound; tune spinning out from it in an infectious, swinging reel.  
  
Victorious, Calista clapped her hands, leaping to her feet with a smile, and began to dance.  
  
His fingers on the strings faltered, missing but a single note before he recovered. He managed, through great effort and force of will, to continue playing - though her flighty, dynamic figure twirled about the edges of his peripheral, a study in diversion. Calista wove circles around him, mobile hips rocking in time to the beat, till he despaired of musical endeavors and looked up. He took off his glasses, tucking them into his breast pocket as his eyes followed her. As the music fell silent she halted, panting out a laugh, shifting her weight from one foot to the other in a self-conscious sway.  
  
Royalle stood suddenly, leaning the guitar against the crate with nerveless fingers. He caught her wrist and dragged her close, gaze hooded and dark. She was gleaming, sticky-sweet; a thin sheen of sweat setting her golden skin alight. One hand curved gently around her throat, firm but caressing, tilted her jaw upwards. His lips found her pulse, tongue gliding over her skin. She tasted of salt and smoke and warm dark rum, and a honeyed lure that was all her own.  
  
"Fuck, Johnny, yes," she gasped, writhing in his grip. Her legs quaked, till she thought she would drop in the street; and then abruptly there was no street, only the lurch of teleportation and the dimness of their hotel.  
  
Royalle pressed her back into the wall, one hand still at her throat, the other rounding the curve of her hip. His touch was firm, possessive; it burned over her skin like a brand. Calista gripped fistfuls of his shirt, pinioning him flush against her as she trembled. She raised her lips to his, kissed him with a needy urgency that made him groan. Her answering whimper was too much to bear, desire throbbing through him with astonishing ferocity. He felt himself spinning out of control; and bowed his head into the crook of her neck, certain that if he looked her in the eye, all would be lost.  
  
He had known it was too late from the moment he teleported, but still clung to the chance that she would save him from himself.  
  
"Tell me to stop." He begged, breaths coming in harsh pants. "Tell me to stop, Calista, please."  
  
She wove her fingers into his hair, dragging his head up to force his gaze. "Don't you dare." Her nails scraped against his scalp, fingers pulling taut, exposing the vulnerable place beneath his jaw to her tongue and nipping teeth.  
  
"Fuck!" The world shifted again, solid wall behind her giving way to emptiness and she was falling, tumbling backwards onto the softness of his bed. Johnny caught her, stretching over her in a predatory lean, thin hands gentle though they shook with need. He buried his fingers in her golden tresses, dragging her head back, mouth feverishly hot on her throat.  
  
Calista squirmed under him, arching up though he'd barely touched her, responsive as only long denial and mercury in the triple digits could make her. The sounds she made were lilting and inarticulate, a gasping babble of his name, pleading and profanity.  
  
She was drunk, he knew she was drunk, but he couldn't stop his hands from sliding over her ribs, grasping her hips, couldn't keep from bunching the fabric of her skirt in white knuckles, aching to tear it off. His leg pressed between both of hers, and she rocked down in a twisting grind against his knee, and he thought that he would die. "Fuck, Calista, Jesus," he rambled, oxygen having abandoned his brain entirely.  
  
" _Please-please-please_ ," she whimpered, voice a plaintive moan. "I need it."  
  
Her pleading broke his resolve with a resounding crack. "I know what you need. Trust me." He lifted her skirt, eyes tracing greedily over each inch of skin as it was revealed. He wrapped long fingers around her thighs, pulling her closer to the edge of the bed.  
  
Sensing his intent, Calista squirmed. "But... I… you-" She frowned, propping herself up on her elbows to look at him as he stretched alongside her. "Don't you want me?"  
  
Johnny stared at her. _Madness_. He took her hand, guiding it down his body in a grip that trembled, her fingertips brushing against his shirt, belt buckle, feather-light; before he pressed her palm to the proof of his need. Her eyes widened to saucers, fingers exploring this new find, her touch inexperienced as she carefully wrapped her hand around him and rubbed. He groaned, hips bucking, and he curled the hand not guiding hers into a fist. "Does it feel like I don't want you?" He rasped.  
  
"Then why?"  
  
He stroked warm hands over her thighs, coaxing her muscles to relax, respond; the hint of a tremor running beneath her skin. "I'll give you what you want, when you're sure you really want it."  
  
She watched him, lips parted, breathless and fascinated. She was too excited even to be affronted at his assessment of her surety. He gently pulled her hand away, stretching it over her head with the other. She wound nervous fingers into the softness of her pillow. watching him kneel between her thighs, the last inch of her skirt sliding, with the whisper of soft fabric and promises, up to her hips.  
  
He hooked long fingers over the waistband of her panties. "But for now, let me give you what you need. I'll make you feel good, I promise." His eyes were vulnerable, yearning; but dark with lust. "And I have been dying to taste you."  
  
Calista swallowed, not trusting her voice, and nodded. Johnny smirked, triumph flashing in cobalt, and tugged playfully at the scrap of cotton that hid her from him. "I need to hear you say it."  
  
"Okay!" She squeaked, gasping. She hadn't been aware of holding her breath. "Okay. Yes. Please."  
  
He chuckled, relenting. "Lie back, sweetheart." She complied, relaxing into the pillow, still watching him warily as he dragged plain but feminine fabric down her legs, hands brushing warm over her knees, ankles, toes as he dropped them on the floor. His movements were careful, methodical; expression singularly focused - she caught his gaze, and flushed red to her collarbone. There was an intense covetousness in his eyes that made her bite her lip as her own eyes rolled heavenward in surrender, a tiny mewl escaping her.  
  
His hands reached up, then slipped slowly down her body, pausing to caress with equal devotion every inch of skin they passed - there was no portion of her which he adored less than any other. Scintillating over her ribs, firmly grasping her softly rounded hips, smoothing over trim thighs and urging them apart gently. He coaxed with patience, using only enough pressure to convey his own sense of urgency and desire.  
  
"Trust me." He reminded her softly, and lowering his head placed a kiss on the inside of her knee. A surprisingly chaste gesture, for what it was; but followed by an increasingly less innocent journey up her inner thigh - gently nipping and suckling the delicate flesh there, trembling muscle beneath supple skin. He took his time, savoring the helpless, breathless panting, the way her hips undulated in small needy circles. The scent of her made his head spin, soft glistening of forbidden fruit a temptation just out of reach. He paused to look up at her, raising an eyebrow in query. "Still yes?" Requesting permission to continue, earnest entreaty of a devil at the figurative pearly gates. Seeking assurance that the girl, still so young, was alright.  
  
She nodded, squirming. "Please, Johnny!"  
  
He obliged.  
  
There is a depth to worship, a patient, hungry devotion, that comes with maturity. The act was one Calista had performed often enough but never received. She could not translate her own lukewarm experiences into the fervent attention Johnny paid her nubile body. She could not reconcile the singing, overarching heat with anything she had found before, in the casual embrace of unimportant lovers. He put his mouth on her, greedy yet reverent, long fingers tantalizing her urgent flesh; and she thought she would run mad with it.  
  
The girl was fragile, a flower stem trembling in a strong wind. She turned her face to the side but could not conceal the tense and quake of her muscles as she twisted fingers into the pillow, keening whimpers caressing his ears and shivering down his spine. He toyed with her, a little, keeping her hovering at the edge of release for just a moment longer than was strictly necessary.  
  
"Fuck, Johnny, god!" She cried, spine snapping taut; and she was gone, loosed like an arrow from a bow, tumbling headlong into ecstasy. He felt her spasm under his touch, mouth a gentle anchor still holding her attention, devouring her as she dissolved into bliss. He flushed, unzipped his pants with a reckless desperation though he had planned to wait; thrusting into his free hand with a groan, feeling his climax burn him alive as she shuddered and moaned above him. When she quieted, clenching muscle exchanged for soft, panting breaths; he made himself presentable and drew a blanket over her; dewy golden skin starting to shiver in the air-conditioned room.  
  
"Are you…?" She queried sleepily, lounging as if drugged against the pillow, fair maiden slain.  
  
"Never better." He replied with shaky earnestness, so unsteady on his feet that he elected to seat himself beside her on the bed before lighting a cigarette. She reached out for it and after a drag or two he passed it to her, tucking a lock of hair away from her eyes. "You were beautiful."  
  
Calista smiled, a drowsy, fragile thing, eyes slitted and unfocused. "Really?"  
  
He nodded, took the cigarette back. "Rest, now."  
  
She reached for him, fingertips falling just short of his wrist. "Stay?"  
  
"I'll be close. I promise."  
  
She shut her eyes, still smiling. When she woke after twilight, a new blustery wind sending clouds scudding across the violet sky; the red guitar leaned in a corner by the bed, with a shiny new string to replace the one that had been lost.


	32. Into the Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we bid farewell for now.

Calista sighed wistfully, one hand cupping her cheek, glancing out over the vista from their terrace. Autumn found them in Vegas, watching droves of college trippers emerge from the desert like wandering tribes and shuttle back to whatever dreary reality they hailed from. Pink and orange, the sunset dominated the scene, illuminating the sky with a painter's abstract care. Far below them, a couple kissed and danced in the courtyard, a tiny pair of enchanted figures, dressed for evening and moving with love, independent of music. She sighed again.   
  
"I wish you could dance."  
  
"I beg your pardon?" Royalle looked up from the paper he was reading, cigarette present and accounted for.   
  
"I'd like to dance, sometime. You know, in a pretty gown, soft music, the whole thing. But-"  
  
"I can dance." He replied, over the rustle of paper as he turned a page. "It ranks lower on the scale than some other skills…" At her flush and bitten lip he added, smirking, "Grand larceny for example. But I can dance."  
  
"Show me!"   
  
Royalle raised a brow at her, looking cornered for an instant before the expression flickered away again. "There's no music, my dear." He set his paper aside regardless, putting out his cigarette as he watched her curiously.   
  
Calista smiled, tapping a few times on her phone, till a lilting melody, smoky and low, sang forth through the speakers.   
  
_Now, you say you love me…_  
  
She held out a hand, hips swaying gently in a long skirt. "Come here."  
  
Her companion rose to his feet, meeting her at the terrace rail. She looked down at the terra cotta tile, coloring a little as her wind-teased blonde hair hid her eyes from him. Johnny took her hand in his, lifting it a little in an invitation to twirl. She rotated slowly, fingertips brushing his, sunlight glinting on gold and silver. When she faced away from him, eyes on the city and the desert beyond, he pulled her close, one hand low on her belly, a warm claiming touch through the thin sundress. Her fingers were still entwined with his, her arm stretched languidly overhead in an elegant arc. He caressed her skin, stroking over the supple curve of her bicep; gaze on hers intense, unfathomable. His touch was light as he brushed the feline plane of her cheekbone, the delicate column of her neck, pulse throbbing beneath warm summergold skin. He curled his fingers towards his palm, ball of his thumb just barely tracing the swell of her breast as he swept southwards, hand smoothing flat over her hip as he pulled her flush against him. The scent of her hair, her skin, was dizzying; he shut his eyes for a moment and felt her quiver.  
  
"Actually I'm not sure I want to dance right now." Calista murmured, breathless against his lips.   
  
Johnny opened his eyes, nearly nose-to-nose with her, pupils dark and hungry. "And what would you prefer?"  
  
She licked her lips, swallowed, feeling his hands on her press harder. "I…"  
  
"Shh. I know."  
  
_Pop._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion playlist: http://8tracks.com/virtueofvice/here-gone-rust-stardust
> 
> Videos: 
> 
> http://acquaintedwithvice.tumblr.com/post/121710978584/fanvid-blurry-johnny-royallecalista-secor-edit
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PGPDxZE7_4g
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pd6zxixWqV4


	33. One Year Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calista and Johnny return to LA for an awards ceremony, but not everyone is happy to see them.

Powers of a certain sort turn the world not into an oyster, but into many oysters - an endlessly opening delight, each day blooming anew with a future destination and an adventure in mind. The distraction is enough to lose oneself, to grow spoiled on the lushness of the present while leaving behind the tragedies and deprivations of the past. 

But all good things must come to an end. They returned to LA for an awards ceremony, though Calista regarded the city with the distaste she reserved for poison. She herself was being honored, and Royalle had convinced her - not without difficulty - to accept the accolades in person. Primarily because she deserved to receive the homage personally for her own good works... But also because the ugly dark part of him that made them call him "villain" wanted to see the bitter looks of loathing on every man's face - on _Diamond's_ face - when he teleported into the banquet hall of the best hotel in LA with Calista's hand resting lightly on the pinstriped summerweight linen of his sleeve. 

Retro Girl had changed, her costume no longer the patriotic cherry red and blinding, pristine white. She arrived at the gala in a sweeping gown of deep burgundy, the high Mandarin collar - a style she had come to favor - doing nothing to disguise the fact that much of the gown's bodice and its entire back were cut away in stark geometric lines, revealing her smooth golden skin beneath a coy seduction of rich black lace. Royalle did her justice in a jet black Italian suit, Milanese shoes polished to a mirror shine, fine charcoal pinstripes set off by the burgundy tie and pocket square and silver three-pointed crown glinting in the flash of cameras. Brushing a hand down the line of her back to pass a whisper, he turned from his companion to light a trademark cigarette, and the paparazzi in profile captured his smirk. 

"The infamous Johnny Royalle," Calista murmured to him, lips stained mulberry dark brushing his ear. "An event thrown in my honor and everyone is looking at you."

"Believe me, my dear," he chuckled softly on an exhale, a smokescreen for their conversation, "They are all looking at you."

One pair of eyes, at least, remained fixed on the pair for the duration of the evening. Christian Walker, as a fallen Power, was something of a novelty at these events - a mere mortal now, looking older than some of his compatriots, though still deceptively agile and a decorated police officer. He merited an invitation by sheer dint of his work in the Powers division, and as a nod to his close personal relationship with the previous Retro Girl - may she rest in peace.

Yet the party's resident conversation piece seemed to cast a pall around himself on this particular evening, discouraging small talk with a listless distraction and brooding brow.

He hovered near the bar, watching Calista give her acceptance speech - such poise! such youthful charm! - somewhere around drink number three. The crowd's adoration was genuine, they offered her a standing ovation as the crystal award was pressed into her hands (accepted with grace, later teleported away for safekeeping). They welcomed her with open arms and eager faces, congratulating her heartily as she descended the dais like a warrior goddess in homecoming. He had been so adored, once. He had been so pristine, once. 

But the crystalline facade contained a crucial flaw. Christian was, for all his flash and sparkle, not a hero marred by moments of human weakness; viewed as if through tears in the cape. He was, contrarily, a base human with all the base weaknesses and selfish wills of other humans who had on occasions few and far between displayed moments of gallantry. Thus was the problem with _all_ Powers, with _all_ professional heroics. True, he had given Johnny what he thought he owed him, fostering Calista's infatuation when it still seemed young and innocent. It had seemed nobly virtuous at the time. But things had not been going well in his own love life - Deena had shot down his drunken advances with ruthless efficiency, and the young Power Zora had proven more interested in sapphic pursuits than his own vintage offerings. We are at our weakest when envy chokes our virtue. 

He watched the pair from across the room, their behavior perfectly acceptable for a social setting, but Royalle's familiar hand at her back, palm separated from warm skin only by that wisp of lace, still seemed indecent. Christian scowled. Deep down, in his core, he was still the charming fast talker that had his choice of company, female fans clamoring for his embrace, and it grated on his ego to see the scrawny, awkward tagalong of his youth pinned down by the adoring gaze of the most beautiful woman in the room. Calista's eyes hung on every flicker of sardonic amusement that raised the other man's brow, the murmured comment that curled upward in a plume of smoke tilting her head back in a full-throated laugh still rich with the sunny gold of youth. He coveted her as a man craves a piece of ripe fruit that hangs, low and full on the tree, in another man's garden. Reaching out as if to pluck the temptation, he tightened his hand around the bottle of cold imported beer he clutched at the open bar and sipped, malt and hops sliding down his throat with the dry bitter chill of resentment. 

Pillars of society moved about the opulent hall like so many pieces on a chessboard, strengthening alliances and applauding one another on what a very fine ceremony they had constructed, a lovely bit of empty showmanship for a hero who had based her career on avoiding the spotlight. Every politician and socialite present seemed to have missed the irony, and Calista sipped her drink with a detatched air, inching closer to the open terrace doors with every polished and demure half-smile. She leaned again into Royalle's side, whispering low and dark, and he ignored the shiver she no doubt intended from the press of her nails against his wrist. 

"I'd kill for ten minutes of peace and quiet."

"Retro Girl, the Queen of Justice?" He smirked. "Never."

Her nails pressed harder, a huffed sigh hot against the shell of his ear as she faked a smile, feigning a laugh instead of tightrope frustration. "Care to try me?"

"Far from it. Join me outside for a smoke, won't you?" He dismissed himself with a cordial wave at their hangers-on, making sure his brushed silver cigarette case was clearly seen as a thin excuse to cover their escape, and they stepped from the crowd onto the balcony. 

Calista sighed, petite frame immediately relaxing as the scrutiny fell away, and she accepted gratefully the slim black cigarette he offered her. A slave to monochrome, the cigarettes he'd favored for tonight's event were imported and scented with spice, the air between them suddenly smoky and sweet. 

"It's like a pack of wolves in there," she complained, rubbing her temple.

"Indeed," Royalle returned dryly, checking the brushed silver pocketwatch she had given him to match the cigarette case and lighter. The soiree was barely half over. "Wolves that adore your effortless competence and endless devotion to fighting the good fight." 

One corner of her mouth quirked up in a now-familiar smirk, and she stepped closer, putting out the cigarette they'd shared and tugging playfully at his tie. "But you know better."

"Yes," he breathed, "I know better."

She stared at him, daring him to meet her gaze without blinking, of a height for once in her black designer stilettos. Her painted lips parted in a sly, teasing smile. "You want to get out of here?"

The carefully measured exhale, a study in control, belied his true thoughts when he answered, "The mayor expects you to close the festivities. Handing out that scholarship for other disadvantaged young things."

She shrugged. "They'll be another hour at least, patting each other on the back and drinking up the free booze." A pause, that wicked smirk that was always his undoing. "You want to get out of here _for a while?_ "

"Yes." He glanced over her shoulder, ensuring no cameras were pointed in their direction when he wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her flush against him, her perfume filling his senses and going to his head in a way the top-shelf scotch he'd been drinking all night had not. "I do." _Pop._

In hindsight, perhaps it was deliberate. As a teleport, he could have taken them anywhere in the world and still had her back in time to deliver her second speech to a handful of starry-eyed teenagers. But perhaps he had wanted to have her somewhere they risked discovery, somewhere she could be marked as incontrovertibly his. Perhaps he wanted her sullied with his darkness while the crowds praised her above. Or perhaps he had sensed the one pair of eyes that had rested on them, the moment he laid his hands on her. 

At any rate, they arrived at the bottom of a stairwell in the same festive hotel a half-second later, Calista's heels an echoing clack against poured concrete as he pressed her back against the cinder-block wall. No matter how lovely the building above, all service tunnels are the same, and this one was no different - bland, utilitarian colors, sturdily built, and dimly lit. Royalle saw none of it, was aware of it only in the abstract as he turned all of his attention to the woman in his arms.

He tugged the polished ebony sticks from her hair, burying his hands in her golden locks and devouring those tempting berry lips like a man starved. Calista clung to his shoulders, her nails leaving creases in the fine linen as one toned golden thigh rose through the cleverly concealed slit in her skirt to wrap around his hips and fit them tight against her own. She rolled into him, nubile body undulating in a fluid, evocative motion; and he groaned, taking her wrists and pinning them hard against the concrete wall with a force he knew she would not feel. "A moment, my love," he growled, "Lest it all be over too soon."

She smirked, both wrists held over her head, her balance resting on his mercy and one pinprick heel - and with a thought made herself weightless. "I thought we were in a hurry."

Royalle could not help but smirk back, turning his attention to the spot on her throat that always produced a high, breathy whine. "Not that much of one." He suddenly became aware of a quiet clatter, and then a presence - a shadow, black upon black, lingering uncertainly at the top of the stairwell. 

_Predictable._

"Christian is watching." He commented mildly, a low rasp audible only to his companion even in the echoing space. He should stop. A decent man would stop, confront his former friend directly, demand to know by what right the outsider dared spy upon such a private moment. 

He was not a decent man. He did not want to stop. 

Calista rolled her eyes heavenward, fixing her gaze on where she assumed the figure's eyes to be as she took Royalle's hand and guided it through layers of satin and lace. "Let him."

He growled softly, roused both by her audacity and the greedy way she welcomed his touch. She was all slick heat and softness, hips bucking into his palm and stroking fingers while he murmured filthy adoration in her ear. She kept her challenging gaze on the watching figure, even as her vision began to spot with white, and was gratified to see the door slam open and a familiar tuxedo retreat as the bliss and blindness swallowed her up. 

Much later, when the guest of honor returned to the party to deliver her slightly delayed parting speech to some very fortunate scholarship recipients and other assembled guests, Johnny Royalle was looking very smug indeed. And Christian Walker was nowhere to be seen, having left some time earlier, pale and drawn. Royalle felt, secretly of course, that despite the accolades given to Calista during the course of the evening, the finer laurels were his own. 


End file.
